


it is life, over the sea, (or at least somewhere by it.)

by bikinibottombitch (cordiallysent)



Category: The SpongeBob Musical - Various/Anthony & Coulton/Jarrow
Genre: An AU of the official human AU of goddamn spongebob, Burgers - Freeform, F/M, M/M, Slow Burn, after so so very long, also, also probably kissing but at this point, and now, because it is a VERY long fic, but i am making it happen anyway, characters having FEELINGS, in this we have human names, it's finally complete!, lets call this, lots of burgers, nobody asked for this, we have lots of sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-28
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 02:16:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10754673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordiallysent/pseuds/bikinibottombitch
Summary: one bobby porter creates a mystery menu at 'ye olde krusty krab', and everything that happens alongside.(a story about love, burgers, and keys to the apartment, told in three acts.)





	1. ACT 1, PART 1: five days 'til opening.

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to something i never thought i'd be trying to create - a modern day AU of 'the spongebob musical', which is what i like to think of as the official human AU for the cartoon. look it up, i mean. you'll get it. as such, i've been picturing the original Chicago cast actors, appearance-wise. human names have been given in the place of the excessively absurd, and bikini bottom sits by the sea, rather than under it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and so, we begin.

**THE SETTING.**

 

 _ah, Bikini Bottom_. A seaside town with a novelty name. It's small, and the people are quirky. It’s warm all year ‘round but they don’t tend to get a lot of tourism since it’s rather tucked away and unheard of. There is one shopping mall, and there are two restaurants. Most everyone that lives there has lived there all their life, and doesn't imagine they'll ever leave.

 

**DRAMATIS PERSONAE.**

**ACT 1.**

 

 _In another life_ , goes a thought, _I have my own place, and it’s terrible._

 

Patrick thinks about it sometimes, this alternate world where he’s somehow self-sufficient enough to manage living on his own. In an ideal scenario, he’d pull it off with zero effort, lounging about on his ass all day, never really taking in the world, practically living under a rock. He thinks, thinking on this, that it’d be lonely, and that his brain would turn to mush even soggier than what it already is. So he’s _poor_ , sure, and Bobby has to pick up the slack on the bills for _both_ of them sometimes. Because while Patrick earns peanuts every once in a while, Bobby at least earns peanuts on a steady paycheck. And if Patrick’s really being honest, when his mind takes a trip down that familiar _‘wonder-what-parallel-world-patrick’s-doing-right-now lane,’_ he still ends up at the equally familiar destination that is -- _what I got ain’t so bad. Ain’t bad at_ all _, in fact. What’s better than spending your whole life with your best friend?_

 

Climbing the flight of stairs up to their second-floor apartment’s as exhausting as it is always, but the jingle of his keys in his pocket, and his fingers twirled through the metal ring with the little plastic starfish on it, and the faint sizzling sound through the door, the warm, delicious smell coming from apartment 124 all blend up into a good kind of feeling that makes Pat forget about the burn that bit of exercise strikes up in his legs. The key turns in the lock, the door swings open, and everything feels a little less heavy from the simple view that is the inside of home.

 

“Hey buddy,” he calls out, shrugging his jacket off by the door. “Something smells _amazing_.”

 

That’s not really anything too unusual, because when Bobby does get home before Pat, on those rarer-than-they-really-need-to-be days when Patrick and his skill as a one-man-band actually managed to get a bit of work, on _those_ days Bobby always takes advantage of the kitchen-space to get down to some culinary experimentation. The _less organised, more chaos_ kind of a look the kitchen takes on is normal on such nights, but what’s _not_ normal is getting only the vaguest, most half-hearted _grunt_ in place of a greeting, and what’s even _less_ normal is how silent everything is otherwise.

 

“Uh...Bobby? You doin’ okay?” Pat asks, hesitant, crossing the living room space to their little, cluttered kitchen.

 

Bobby only grunts again, not looking up. Patrick frowns, taking in the sight of the chef _way_ too hard at work. His hair’s sticking up all strange; with flour instead of hair gel, and his tee probably started the day off blue -- by now it’s been flash-dyed in a rainbow of condiments. He looks beside himself, fist hovering over a circle of patty meat on the counter. Patrick continues his approach, hands up in surrender.

 

“I completely can’t do this,” Bobby says, fist still raised, eyes still on the patty. “I don’t know what in the heck I was thinkin’. M’gonna fail super hard, and then get fired, and end up a hobo, and end up gettin--”

 

“Woah, woah, woah.” Pat says, his belly bumping the counter, stopping him in his tracks. “ _What_ can’t you do?”

 

“I asked Mr K if I could do that thing, you know, like...and make special burgers for every day? Just to try it out.”

 

It had been a long, drawn-out campaign, starting small; with vague hint-dropping, ‘til eventually culminating in a flip-chart presentation with some really damn well thought out infographics, (most owed to a certain scientist by the name of _Scudiero_.)

 

One Robert S. Porter had stood in the break room and wrung his tie in clammy hands, feeling slightly ridiculous for all the effort he’d gone to, and his boss had fixed him with a long, hard stare, mouth grimly set beneath his moustache, and just when Bobby had thought, _oh, well, at least I gave it a try--_ only then did Mr Krabbe nod, and say, _okay, for a week, boy-o. Let’s see if the people like what you give them_.

 

“Only-” A deep breath. “Only problem is- now I gotta come up with five different specials, and I spent _all_ that time just try’na get him to even come around to the idea! I didn’t even have time to think about what I was _actually_ gonna serve.”

 

He raises his fist that bit higher, winding up for the brutal smack-down, but just at the last second he hesitates, and his knuckles just barely brush the lump of seasoned meat sitting on the counter. Then he groans, long, drawn-out, face going comically _tragic_ looking, made all the more exaggerated as he drags his hands down his face, pulling at the bags under his eyes, all of him swaying at the knees. Patrick notices, and seizes the opportunity to grab his friend by the shoulders and propel him toward the couch.

 

Both of them collapse backwards, ass-first into the worn-out cushions, but while Patrick slings his arm ‘round Bobby’s shoulders, Bobby only covers his face with his hands.

 

“I mean- this is the first step, right?” He says, muffled. “Step one in my journey to actually becoming, you know, a real chef.”

 

“You _are_ a real chef, dude.” Patrick says, rolling his neck to fix his friend with a serious kind of a _you got this_ look. Bobby slumps himself, liquid-like, against the back of the sofa, fingers worrying at one of the stained spots on his tee.

 

“I’m a _fry cook_ , which isn’t totally the same thing. I just make the same stuff every day. What if I never amount to any more than that? It’s not like I’m _that_ good. I’ve just had a lot of practice with one thing. What if I can’t _actually_ make anything else. What if I never make it? You know, in the...food biz.”

 

“You _will_ ! You’re...an _artist_. Like- like Edward.” Pat raises his eyebrows, says their neighbour’s name like it’s a private joke. Bobby snorts as Pat continues. “Except with burgers stead’a...all of whatever he does.”

 

“Painting, sculpture...waking the dead with that clarinet?” Bobby says.

 

“ _Oh_ yeah. And the fine art of the combover. You ever heard his hair combing song in the mornings?” Pat offers. Bobby snorts, loud and wet, nose in desperate need of a tissue. “Writing songs is _super_ not his thing.” Pat continues.

 

Bobby shrugs, a slow lift of the shoulders and then a sudden drop, like all the world’s weighing on his shoulders.

 

“But it is yours,” Pat keeps going, nudging his friend, still trying to coax Bobby out of his glum mood. “And so is being a kickass chef. Right? You just gotta...songwrite some awesome food. I can see the specials board now.” Thick-fingered hands lift, sweeping across an invisible stage, picturing it, that Chef Porter Mystery Menu, the specials still just blurry chalk in Patrick’s mind, but the board itself- _that_ at least has got lights around it. Bobby sits up a little, trying to picture what Patrick’s picturing. Somehow, he’s not sure he can manage it. _He_ can’t see the specials board past Mr K’s disapproving look-- already he looks let-down and Bobby’s not even gotten _started_.

 

“So,” Pat says, punctuating the break in the silence with a double-knee-slap. “When do you need to have all this ready?”

 

Bobby winces.

 

“Next Tuesday, Mr K’s start of the week. So I got...five days.”

 

 _Five days_ sounds like he’s saying it around a mouthful of poison, like five days is all he’s got left in the world before he’s gotta kiss the sweet shores of their beloved beach town goodbye and get sent down to Davy Jones’ locker. Patrick lets out a low whistle.

 

“And how long’s the working week down at the ol’ _Krab_ again?”

 

“Five days.”

 

“So five days for five specials. That’s a special a day. You can do it,” he says, turning to Bobby again, looking serious. “And I’ll be with you the whole way.”

 

Bobby’s mouth twitches at the corner, just a fraction of a smile. “Thanks, Pat.”

 

Patrick grins, and the heavy cloud of stress and tension starts to clear as he leans back. “Okay. I _mean_ it, you know. With you _all_ the way. You know. As your official taste tester.”

 

Bobby snorts. “Of course! Couldn't possibly do it without you.”

 

\---

 

It’s years ago, and Bobby Porter is not twenty-five but just shy of twenty, with scruffier hair and just a bit of an air of _despair_ around him. It’s been three months and twice as many short-lived jobs, and he and Pat have run almost all the way through the savings scrimped together from teenage summer-jobs, almost every cent of _we gotta make it on our own_ money rolled away. The weight of possibly having to back up, go back to the house he grew up in, collapse into his parents arms and say _I couldn’t do it, I’m just a stupid kid, after all --_ all of that weighs heavy and unwanted. It’s a thought that clenches red-shell claws around his heart -- it’s one thing to let himself down, and his parents, but he can’t let down his best friend. He can’t let down _Patrick_ . Because- _because--_

 

Stop. Breathe, and it’s more years ago still, and the meeting of the B.F.F. club comes to order beneath the _aquaman-and-aqualad_ blanket roof of their couch-cushion fort. It’s been a few too many years since they’ve had a meeting at all, because _surely_ thirteen’s too old now, for such things, but the ashen look on Patrick’s face makes him look far less _teen_ , far more like the kids they really are.

 

“You can stay here forever,” Bobby says, skinny arm lifting, palm pressed to his best friend’s heart. “You don’t need ‘em.”

 

Patrick’s clammy fingers settle against the back of Bobby’s hand, pressing it closer, so Bobby can feel each heartbeat strike it’s fearful drumming in his friend’s chest. Their eyes don’t meet, but that’s okay.

 

“They’re my _parents_ ,” Pat says, choking on the word and the sob rising in his throat. “Parents are supposed to love their kids. They’re my _family_.”

 

“ _I’m_ your family,” Bobby insists, getting up on his knees, shuffling closer. “I’ll never, _ever_ throw you out, I’m _always_ gonna be there. Someday… someday, we’ll have our own place. We can make it on our own.”

 

 _We can make it on our own_ , Bobby thinks, thinking back, when once again he’s there, just shy of twenty, rounding a corner downtown. _Sure. We can make it on our own, if I can find another job._

 

It's then that he sees it, _The_ _Olde Krusty Krab_ , a pirate’s-pub-styled eatery he’s been in only once. Of the place he remembers two things - the seafaring theme is corny, but the patties are to _die_ for.

 

There’s no _help wanted_ sign outside, but that’s not stopped Bobby from trying at the last four places - it won't stop him here either.

 

Striding through the doors, the first new observation is that the place has _not_ changed since he was a kid. The decor is peeling a little with age, and the seats, the lights, the tables - it all looks a bit worn out. The same could be said for the guy behind the counter, a man a fair bit older than Bobby, (if his greying hair and vaguely receeded hairline are anything to go by,) and looking, for all the _three_ customers in there, like he’s just had to work the world’s busiest dinner rush.

 

“Hey,” Bobby says, on the approach. “I hate to just come wandering in making demands but... do you guys- uh- are you hiring? At all?”

 

The guy looks up from over his glasses and the magazine he’d been reading (and rereading, and rereading,) sighs heavily, and then speaks, slow and deliberate, like he thinks Bobby’s some sort of imbecile.

 

“You’ll have to speak to the manager about that, _sir_ , but I wouldn't hold your breath.”

 

Bobby winces, and the guy goes back to his magazine.

 

“Um, uh...so, where’s the manager?”

 

For a moment, no response, and then, _really_ taking his time, the guy looks up again.

 

“That’s need to know information. Ask my manager.”

 

His eyes slide back down to _Woodwinds Monthly_ , and Bobby’s brows furrow, baffled beyond belief. He’s about to try and formulate another question, when a head pokes through the service window into the kitchen.

 

“Mister Edward!” He barks, in a voice that makes Bobby _instantly_ think of a pirate, and the whole theme of the place makes sense. “What’s all this jawing going on out here?”

 

Edward doesn't look up, but he waves a hand vaguely at Bobby, and Bobby takes that as his cue to make his case.

 

“Um, hello sir, my name is Bobby Porter, and I’m- I was wondering if you had any jobs open. Uh, for me. I’ve- I’m a real hard worker, sir, and I learn fast- anything you could need-”

 

“Hold on there boy-o,” says the manager, holding up a grizzled, hairy-knuckled hand. “We’re not hiring. Got a crack team here, me and Mister Edward. Won’t be needing any help from young whippersnappers like yourself.”

 

Bobby’s shoulders slump. The past few places he’d tried, he’d pressed a little harder, but by this point he’s far too dejected to consider his theatrical begging routine.

 

“Are you sure?” he asks, weakly. “It’s just this town ain't big, sir, and no-one is hiring. I _gotta_ find work, and I think you're my last shot.”

 

The manager looks thoughtful, but after a moment, he simply slaps the counter and shakes his head.

 

“Sorry lad, but like I said. Crack team, me and Edward.”

 

Edward snorts loudly, and lowers his magazine.

 

“As _if_ , Krabbe. Why don't you just give the kid a job - it’d get you to stop _hounding_ me.”

 

Krabbe glares daggers at Edward, and Bobby can only hover by awkwardly as the (entire?) staff of _The Olde Krusty Krab_ have a heated argument using only their eyebrows.

 

Eventually, Krabbe seems to relent.

 

“Suppose I’ve been needing a sponge boy. Can't be cleaning up all by myself all day.” He sticks his hand out. “You know how to wash dishes, son? Your mama teach you proper manners?”

 

Bobby hesitates for only half a second, before nodding emphatically -- _of course sir!_ Krabbe nods, apparently satisfied, and jerks his already outstretched hand. Bobby gets the message and shakes hands, trying not to wince at the strength of Krabbe’s grip. The guy’s _got_ to have been a wrestler, or a boxer or something.

 

“Then you're hired. Eugene Krabbe, your new manager. And this is Edward Telford.”

 

Edward gives a cursory grunt, but Bobby shoots him a grateful look as Krabbe releases his hand, and Edward gives him a polite nod. Bobby's more thankful still it doesn't look like a  _you owe me_ nod, at the very least, but he makes sure he won't forget it. It's not every day a stranger sticks their neck out for you, after all.

 

“Bobby Porter. Pleased to meet you.”

 

“Bobby, eh?” Krabbe says, raising an eyebrow. Bobby’s brows furrow together again.

 

“Erm...Robert?”

 

Krabbe laughs, loud enough to shake the room, and just a little terrifying.

 

“I won't remember either way. Come on, sponge-boy, I’ll show you the sink.”

 

\---

 

It’s a sink that Bobby’s hunched over now, though he considers, in hindsight, that he ought to have spared his plumbing and aimed straight for the garbage.

 

Attempt number eight tastes like roasted gym socks, with notes of mould and dish soap. Bobby can’t stomach it, knows that the patrons of the _Krab_ wouldn't be able to - and, the real indicator - even Patrick looks a little queasy, three bites in.

 

“I don't think we’re getting anywhere, buddy,” Bobby mumbles, wiping his mouth and sweeping the remains of attempt eight into the trash. “I’m just gonna have to face it. I’m not any good at makin’ my own burger recipes. I should just stick to the script next week…” He sighs, resting his head on the countertop, his arms folded across the surface. Voice muffled, he continues. “I should’a never told Mr K about my idea in the first place. He’ll- he’ll probably fire me for wasting his time-”

 

“Hey,” Patrick says, urgently, stooping down to his friend’s glum level. “ _Hey_ .” Softer, with a hand on Bobby’s arm. “Don’t say that. I think attempts four, five and seven were _more_ than edible.”

 

Bobby’s mouth quirks, but there isn't a hint of mirth in his expression.

 

“I dunno, Pat,” he sighs. “Maybe we should- call Sandy or something. She’s smart.”

 

Patrick makes a noise just erring on the side of irritated. It’s not that he doesn't like Sandy, it's just that Bobby _always_ calls her when the going gets tough, because, _yeah_ , she's the smartest person they know - heck - the smartest person _around_ , but there's just something- _something_ that makes Pat that bit reluctant to call her up whenever they hit a hitch. And he can't quite pinpoint just what that something _is_ , maybe the way Bobby looks when she's around, like she's the only person there, like she's the only person worth anything -- maybe it's just that when she's around, Bobby’s never looking at Patrick.

 

“No we don’t, man, we just gotta think about this differently, is all. ‘Sides,” Patrick hauls himself to his feet, dusting off crumbs. “She said she was _working_ today, right? That...weathervane? Thing? She probably doesn't even want us bothering her. It’s _okay_ ,” he says, slapping Bobby’s shoulder. “We got this.”

 

Bobby grumbles, but he lifts his head. There’s a patch of flour on his forehead, and Pat lifts a hand, brushing the white dust from his friend’s skin like it’s second nature. Bobby doesn’t flinch, instead inches forward, shutting his eyes against the contact, not even trying to swat Patrick’s hand away, not even breathing out a laugh.

 

So maybe the stress of it’s getting to him more than usual, and sapped the will to be whimsical from him. That makes it hurt, just a little, deep in Patrick’s chest, and he wonders if it’d be easier just to give in, to call Sandy, to beg for her to solve their problem with science and some sort of graph Pat doesn’t stand a chance at understanding. So what if, then, Bobby's smile is not for Patrick? At least he _would_ be smiling.

 

“C’mon,” he says, gently. “I think you need to take a break.”

 

Bobby nods, and Patrick remembers his hand’s still there, now lingering against Bobby’s cheek, and, almost like he's a magnet resisting the polar’s pull, he removes his hand, and, after a moment’s thought, he hefts Bobby up into his arms and carries him back to the couch, ignoring the half-hearted shouts of protest.

 

Both boys land with a huff of breath onto the couch once more, though this time Bobby’s got to deal with his _giant_ best friend sprawled like some kind of starfish over a good half of him. He laughs, breathless, and reaches his arms around to pinch at Patrick’s sides, as if he could possibly do anything to get Pat to let up and shove off him.

 

“Pat, you're crushing me.” he wheezes, but he can't help but grin.

 

“I know. But suddenly gravity is acting like, _super_ strong on me. It’s like I’m on Jupiter.”

 

Bobby snorts, and lets his head fall back against the couch cushions. They lapse into silence and even though his legs are going numb underneath Patrick’s huge body, Bobby has to admit, the world isn’t looking _quite_ so horrible from the safe three feet distance between couch and kitchen counter. _It’s nice_ , he thinks, _even if he’s really, really,_ really _heavy._

 

The silence stretches and, difficult though it could be considered to be - Patrick eventually notices that Bobby’s actually managed to doze off. So he does what it almost _pains_ him to do, and rolls off the couch, slipping his phone out of his pocket in one expert couch-potato maneouver.

 

Sandy doesn’t have a special nickname in his phone, though they’ve known each other for close to three years now.

 

**Patrick: hey u there**

**Patrick: i need your help**

**Patrick: sandy**

**Sandy: yeah what**

**Patrick: did bobby tell you about his thing**

**Patrick: his burger thing**

**Sandy: ???**

**Patrick: he needs to come up with a bunch of special**

**Patrick: s**

For a moment, all Pat sees, lying on his back with his phone half an inch from his face is the little bubble with the three dots, and he wonders if Bobby _hasn’t_ actually told her. Are they not at that stage yet, in the...whatever-it-is they’ve got going on with each other?

He sends a further three messages, each a single burger emoji before he gets a reply.

**Sandy: his plan to get his boss to let him do burgers of the day? yeah he mentioned that a while ago but i hadnt heard about it since**

**Sandy: does that mean mr crab said yes?**

Well, so much for that.

**Patrick: yeah but bobbys stuck now hes moping**

**Patrick: he just made 8**

**Patrick: (and i 8 ALL of them but)**

**Patrick: but he wasnt happy with them. got no ideas so he wanted to call u**

He stares at the little dots signifying Sandy’s fingers tapping out her reply across town. Bobby shifts a little, but doesn’t stir. His hand hangs down over the side of the couch. There’s a smear of dried ketchup on the inside of his wrist. This time it takes Sandy much longer to reply. Patrick wonders what she’s thinking, what she’s typing out, if she’s texting him an essay, or a full secret recipe from her ol’ home back in Texas, and he wonders if she’s just dawdling, typing something and deciding _no_ , backing up on it, or not.

**Sandy: i dont think im really the best person for this you know i cant cook nothin that aint burnt barbecue but it sounds like hes probably trying TOO hard to come up with something unique. maybe tell him just to start with the bare bones of a burger and just change one thing? then it could work like a springboard to bigger ideas?**

That...that’s actually not a bad idea, Pat has to concede, so he sends a _thanks!!!_ and doesn’t wait for a response. Then he sits himself up and looks to his friend, passed out on the sofa, and carefully considers his next move.

So he’s not a chef, and his skill with cooking begins and ends with being able to put TV dinners in the microwave - and even that’s hit or miss. But he’s seen Bobby make enough burgers - even just tonight. _Can’t be that hard_ , he rationalises. _Maybe I learned through osmoosis, or whatever it’s called._

\---

Bobby wakes up a couple hours later to find Patrick frying up a mountain of onion rings. Pat’s dancing and mouthing along to something in his earphones - _Meat Loaf_ or _REO_ _Speedwagon_ , he’d hazard a guess - and there’s a burger bun on the counter, but no patty.

“Pat?” Bobby shuffles, the lingering effect of sleep making his voice crackle like the oil the onion rings still sizzle in. “Whatcha doin’?”

Pat drops an earphone, waving the spatula around vaguely.

“Okay, so I _was_ gonna do this whole thing where I’d surprise you by coming up with an awesome burger-of-the-day _for_ you so you wouldn’t have to, but then I remembered...I really, _really_ don’t know what I’m doing. I googled how to make onion rings,” he gestures to the mountain on a plate next to him, “and I’ve made...that many. I can’t stop. That’s not even _all_ of them. I’ve eaten like...half.”

Bobby’s close enough to _smell_ that, yeah, but he reaches over and grabs one of the onion rings himself.

“You were gonna try and make the special for me?” he says, slowly, stepping back to look at his friend, properly, for the first time today. His pompadour’s long since collapsed, hairspray finally given up the battle, _so much for 24 hour hold_ . His face shines with oil, the familiar sheen of perspiration across his brow - Patrick’s always run warm. Bobby feels like the moment’s frozen, and he’s touched just by the thought that Pat would even _try_ to solve his problem for him. He looks different in this new light - or maybe what’s new is just that one of the lightbulbs in their kitchen’s busted.

Patrick just shrugs, and with that motion, time continues to move. “Sure, why not? I mean - ‘cause I can’t _cook_ , obviously, but…” he kills the gas, turns to face Bobby. “Okay, so I _did_ text Sandy. She said- said you were tryin’ too hard to be unique. I gotta say, I actually, like... _agreed_ with her. She said you oughtta just go back to the basics and change one thing.”

Bobby nods thoughtfully, chewing just as thoughtfully on the onion ring he’d nabbed. And as he chews, and considers the empty burger bun staring at him from the counter, and _Mount Funyun_ to his side, he thinks -- _you know, the shape of these onion rings kinda remind me of something._

“Patrick,” he says, grabbing a fistful of them. “You’re a _genius_.”

\---

Just shy of midnight, and therefore still making it within day one’s deadline, _the crispy barnacle burger_ is born.


	2. ACT 1, PART 2: a regular working day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'scudiero' is a bit like 'sciuridae'. 'porter' is kinda similar to 'porifera'.
> 
> this chapter is... almost entirely bobby/sandy. you just need to bear with me. things need to be established.

By now, Sandy wakes before her alarm. At 6:48 AM she lies on her front, arm ‘round her pillow, thumb hovering over the  _ swipe to dismiss _ option. She decides to leave it. That gives her twelve minutes to scroll through social media as she comes out of sleep, the rhythmic routine of tapping little heart emoji on everybody’s posts almost enough to have her nod off yet again - at least ‘til she gets far enough down her update feed to see an image that wakes her up a little.

 

A photo post by _ _sponge_boy_99 _ , and in it, Bobby and Patrick are squished together, cheek-to-cheek within the 1080px frame. Held up in hand between them is a burger, half crushed, with a sizeable bite out of it. Maybe it’s two bites. Both of them have crumbs and ketchup on their faces, and circles almost as dark as the eyeliner Sandy wears underneath their eyes. There’s a mixture of what’s got to be exhaustion fuelled hysteria and elation on their faces, and the caption is only a string of confetti cannon, hamburger, and  _ 100 _ emojis.

 

She pinches her screen in then out to get a closer look at the burger - and it seems normal enough, save for an onion ring she can just see hanging out of it. Grinning, Sandy fills in the blanks and figures her advice was well heeded. Then, once she’s added her own congratulatory string of clapping hand emojis to the comment section, the 7:00 alarm buzzes insistently and, rolling her eyes, Sandy in turn rolls herself out of bed.

 

\---

 

When she arrives in town, on that very first day, she wears cowboy boots, as if she wants to scream to this new place,  _ hey, I’m from Texas! _ But the thing is-- the real  _ thing  _ of it is that she kind of  _ does _ want to scream that to his place, because she’s proud of her family, getting along there despite it all, and prouder still of how far she’s come. Clear ‘cross the country, all on her own.

 

When she walks ‘round town, on that first day, everybody stares at her shoes. They stare at  _ all _ of her, that’s for sure, but they really, _ really  _ stare when they get to her shoes.

 

She thinks they’re,  _ okay, _ kinda goofy, but who wouldn’t? They’re purple. Deep, eggplant-purple leather, with the little embroidered flowers on like the ones she used to put in her hair as a kid -- bluebonnets and indian blankets, pink evening primrose and blue-eyed grass. Coreopsis blooms, all up her calves. Her father had presented her with them on her twenty-first birthday, and, upon seeing those same flowers, picked out in a rainbow of different threads, she’d damn near cried for how thoughtful they were, how perfect, despite the cornyness of the tradition.

 

_ Every Scudiero has a pair _ , said her papa, grinning as she tugged them on, all over-eager. Sandy had laughed, looking down at her father’s own worn-out boots, the ones with the bottle-green trim, bottle-green like his favourite beer.  _ Well then it’s about damn time I got my own! _ Sandy had said, flinging her arms around her father’s neck.

 

(If the absolute truth had been told, she’d honestly say she preferred her sneakers. But her papa’s penchant for the cuban heel was unparallelled by any other Texas native, and he just looked so honest-to-god  _ happy _ when he was wearing them that no-one could fault him, even when he made grand, custom-made gestures that ended with people having to do the same, like it or not. Sandy’s mother had her own pair, as did her brothers. Only right that, on the day she’d become legal to get drunk at the grown-ups table, she’d also get to wear the family footwear.)

 

So the day she leaves the family house, up in those early hours, the first step in her journey to a little beach town with a ridiculous name -- that day she puts them on, because her papa loved them so much, and he loved her even more.

 

How awful, then, it feels, to realise people had been sniggering at her boots as she walks by, on that first day in town. She pays for her essentials at the counter with her head down, but the cheerful flowers atop her toes do nothing to make her feel less like a fish out of water. Back home nobody had really cared if you wore the flamboyant footwear - but nobody knows her  _ here _ . All her shoes do is remind her of it. And she’s halfway across the parking lot and halfway to hopping into her car and digging through the chaos stuffed in the back for something more ordinary when she hears someone calling out to her.

 

“--wait up! Miss? Miss! Hey! You in the cowboy boots! I think you dropped your keys back in the store!”

 

A guy, (wearing a knitted sweater vest in  _ july, _ ) dashes through the automatic sliding doors and hurries toward her, clutching a jingling, jangling ring of keys and fobs and charms. There’s the skid of sneakers coming to an abrupt halt on parking lot asphalt as reaches her. Gasping for breath, he hunches over, one hand on his knee, the other extended, holding her keys out to her.

 

“Thank you,” Sandy says, as her keychain passes from his hands to hers. The guy straightens up, beaming a gap-toothed smile with a still breathless  _ you're welcome,  _ and she’s taken in, then, by him, by the first kind interaction she’s received all day. “You’re a lifesaver.”

 

She squeezes the keys tight in her hand, tight like you’d hold a lifeline, tight like he’s thrown her something to hold onto in this storm unlike any other, the storm that is _ striking-out-all-alone _ . The metal of the all-important ring digs into her palm, and the boy introduces himself.

 

\---

 

These days her boots never see the sun, and that keyring has an addition to it - a little extra weight reminding her of that same boy, the knight-in-shining-knitwear that’s made such an impression on her heart.

 

The key is for emergencies, or if she just wants to come in and say hello, if she’s bored, if she misses him, if she misses Patrick, if she misses their cat, if she needs sugar...the list had gone on.

 

This morning, she’s bored, and she’s procrastinating, and her busted old weatherman’s van seems to take her to Casa Starr-Porter of its own accord. Her keys jingle-jangle as she turns them in the lock and lets herself in, into the sound of the shower running, and, over it, some italian song in a distinctive high tenor. That accounts for one of the apartment’s occupants, at least. And the cat slinking its slow, lethargic way over to her accounts for another. She bends down to give Gary’s head a polite stroke, before calling out a loud ‘ _ it’s me!’ _ to the room. The shower shuts off, and she hears an answering shout of, ‘ _ hey there, me!’ _

 

“Is Bobby awake yet?” She calls out, twirling her keys ‘round her finger as she hops up to sit on the kitchen counter.

 

“Yeah!” comes Patrick's response, muffled by the bathroom door. “He’s just gone out for a sec to buy O.J.”

 

Then the door swings open, and Pat shuffles out of the bathroom; his long, wet hair still dripping everywhere. Strange to see, not styled in it’s usually rockabilly ‘do. He had, at least, had the decency to put on a pair of shorts - though decency does end there. She gets an eyeful of ginger chest hair and grimaces, but she knows she should count herself lucky that, at the very least, he’s clean.

 

Patrick passes her, nudging her knees out of his way as he makes a beeline for the fridge. It’s not ‘til after he’s rifled through the chilled shelves, popped open a can of cream soda, and taken three long glugs, that he even seems to really register that Sandy’s actually there.

 

“How’d you get in?” He asks, holding the can out to her. She shakes her head,  _ no thanks _ , then holds up her hand, keys still spinning on her index finger. Patrick’s eyes slide slowly from her face to the keys and then back again. He takes another glug of his soda. Then, hissing from the way the fizz of the drink bubbles up in his nose, he asks, “since when did you have a key to our apartment?”

 

_ Our  _ apartment. He says.  _ Me and Bobby _ , he means, she knows it. Sandy shrugs, trying not to squirm under his suddenly sharp, narrow eyed gaze. “Since last month. Remember? You were  _ there _ . After you guys called me asking to bring that leftover box of cupcakes from my weathervane demonstration, and then you both went out, so nobody was there to let me in, and I had to wait outside in the rain for half an hour, and it got ruined?”

 

Patrick’s eyes narrow all the more, but after a moment or two of what looks like truly careful recollection, he simply shrugs;  _ sure, sounds good. _ “Yeah, I remember. Good cupcakes. Kinda soggy, but good.”

 

_ Soggy _ had been right - Bobby and Pat had found her drenched on their doorstep, clutching soggy boxes and lamenting that their building didn’t have a better shelter, and she  _ would _ have just hidden in her van only she’d taken the  _ bus _ because it had a flat she hadn’t taken care of and  _ why don’t you just give me a key, or something, save me the trouble-- _ she hadn’t really  _ meant _ it, but Bobby had eagerly rushed to grab her the spare all the same.

 

Sandy looks up now from her keys, ceasing their spinning to watch her barely-dressed friend make his way ‘round the kitchen, popping open cupboards and drawers in search for something edible. Pat moves in this lazy way, this slow,  _ walking underwater _ kind of manner. He’s always been a mystery to Sandy - how he thinks, how he gets along on almost nothing. She suspects he’s a freeloader, and, mean though it might be, she wonders just why Bobby puts up with him sometimes.

 

But maybe - that’s all just because she doesn’t  _ really  _ know him. Bobby had been her first friend in town, and the more she thinks about it, the more she realises that she hadn’t ever really branched out. Bobby’s friends are hers by association. Patrick is a friend by association. He and Bobby have this long history, one she’s not really privy too. Bobby has shared so much of himself with her, opened himself up like a book in the hopes she’d take a shine and want to stick around. She supposes that’s just the way he is - the opposite of her. And the things she feels, she keeps to herself, yet she  _ had _ taken a shine to him, all of Bobby Porter offered up to her with a grin and her own keyring. She wonders if maybe it had been the same for Patrick, someone else without much to say, drawn to that bright boy - or if she’s got it all totally wrong.

 

She makes up her mind to try, with Patrick, who’s found a box of  _ Cap’n Crunch _ that he doesn’t bother offering her, but before she can formulate even the tamest of ice-breaker questions, the apartment door crashes open, and Bobby dashes in with arms full of cartons of orange juice, and a box of grocery store doughnuts. Pink, with blue and yellow sprinkles. Four for a dollar.

 

“--Pat, I saw Mrs Pöff in the grocery store just now. She actually asked  _ me _ what she should get Mr K for their six-month-a-versary.” He sets his purchases down on the counter, still talking animatedly. “Y’know, I think she might be finally comin’ around to me. I said she oughtta get him a  _ watch _ or somethin’, that’s  _ classy _ , right?”

 

Patrick nods lazily, popping open the doughnut box. He and Bobby each take one, and  _ clink _ them together, making the high-pitched sound effect with their mouths and giggling at their own toast. Sandy can’t help the grin that forms across her face as she watches it, but only when she lets out a little chuckle does Bobby, much the same as Patrick earlier, seem to register she’s there.

 

“Sandy!” He beams, handing her his doughnut and taking another. “When did you get here?”

 

“Only a couple of minutes ago,” Sandy says. They clink doughnuts too, and Sandy thinks - for a brief second, just out of the corner of her eyes - that she sees Patrick raise his eyebrows. “A watch  _ does _ sound classy, Bobby. So long as it doesn’t look like  _ yours _ .”

 

She reaches forward to tap the face of his  _ genuine 80s, totally rad swatch-watch! _ Bobby grins sheepishly.

 

“Aw, well you know, if she could find one of these with like, a  _ pirate _ theme, Mr K would probably propose on the spot.” He takes a bite of the doughnut, chewing thoughtfully. “Or maybe  _ I _ should be giving Mr K gifts, try and butter him up before next week.” He sighs, all his morning cheer threatening to follow Gary out the window. He gives his cat a glum wave, and Sandy exchanges an uneasy look with Patrick.

 

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Pat says. “Maybe you’ll think of another special today!”

 

Sandy nods. “Sure! Nothin’ like gettin’ inspired on the job.”

 

Bobby nods, mouth quirked in a miserable attempt at a smile. “Yeah, sure, I guess.”

 

Sandy pats his shoulder, and Patrick cracks open the orange juice. He tops off his can of cream soda with it, and, deciding the taste is satisfactory, he passes it around. Bobby approves. Sandy suggests it could do with a little cinnamon. The next half an hour is filled with an impromptu morning mocktail experimentation session, and most of it ends up down the sink. Pat’s partial to the _crunch_ (cola, kool-aid, whipped cream, sprinkled with cereal,) while Sandy prefers the _christmas-all-year-round_ (apple juice, maple syrup, cupcake glitter.) For Bobby, the _lighter-than-soda_ (which could also be called a strawberry ice cream float in lemonade.)

 

“Uh oh-- I think I’m running late. I gotta get to work,” Bobby says, as all three finish their last glugs.

 

“‘I’ll drive you!” Sandy says, as Bobby sweeps away her blue plastic cocktail glass.

 

Patrick says nothing, and, uncharacteristic, he actually reaches for the mess they’ve made himself. “It’s okay,” he says to Bobby, “I got it. You better get ready, dude.” Bobby nods, holds up his hands to Sandy --  _ will you give me a second?  _ \-- and dashes away to grab his uniform.

 

“So, Patrick,” Sandy says, as she watches him dump dirtied plates and cups into the sink. “What are you doing today?”

 

Pat shrugs, and his pink washing-up gloves snap against his skin. “Nothin’, I guess. Yesterday was my last day workin’ with this guy for some… commercial, or whatever.” He lifts his hands, miming his trombone. “ _Bw- bw- bwaaaah._ _Use Ocean Breeze Soap. Just like taking a cruise, only there’s no water, and you don’t go anywhe-eh-eeehre._ ”

 

Sandy snorts, and Patrick laughs along with her, just for a moment, before they lapse back into semi-awkward silence, and they both find themselves just waiting on Bobby -- who, thankfully, appears only a moment later, sailor hat on head. He motions to the door, and Sandy follows him. Bobby sets his hand on the door handle, then suddenly stops, dashes back across the room, and stretches up, high as he can on tiptoes to plant a kiss on Patrick’s forehead before he leaves. Helpfully, Pat bends at the knees to even out the difference, and, before Sandy can cock her head and go  _ awww, _ Bobby’s hurried her out the door.

 

\---

 

Though he swears his gratitude, Sandy knows Bobby abhors her little busted-up weatherman’s van. She’s synonymous with  _ organised chaos _ , which isn’t the preferred atmosphere to a neat-freak like Bobby.

 

At least it’s just the van, today, and not her  _ house _ .

 

“Thanks for givin’ me a ride, Sandy,” he says, buckling in. Sandy nods.

 

“You and Patrick are  _ adorable _ .” she says.

 

“What?”

 

She gives him a sidelong glance, a smile curling her lip as she pulls out onto the road. Bobby looks truly perplexed - brows furrowed, wide eyes worried, mouth hanging open (it’s  _ adorable _ ! Sandy thinks. He’s  _ adorable _ .) - at least before the light clicks on, and he schools his expression into something a little less flabberghasted.

 

“Oh.  _ That _ ? I do that all the time. For as long as I’ve known him. As long I can remember, even.” He fiddles with his nametag. “Don’t tell me that’s weird.”

 

“Is that  _ all _ you do?” Sandy asks, her grin growing wider. Bobby flushes scarlet.

 

“ _ No _ ! I mean--  _ yeah-- _ Sandy, c’mon. He’s my best friend. You know I love him more’n anythin’.”

 

“Aw, I know. I’m just teasin’ you.” She laughs, and Bobby looks a little more put at ease. Or, at least, she hopes. She  _ can _ only see him out of the corner of her eye.

 

She wonders if, someday, she might mean as much to him as Patrick does. And as she looks at him out of the corner of her eye, still pink in the cheeks, it strikes her then that he probably means that much to  _ her _ already. After all, she could have turned tail on this town many times, yet each time she’d voiced the thought, he’d been quick to her assure her she was loved, needed, wanted.  _ By me, _ he’d say. So she drops everything to help him when he asks, for he does the same for her -- but before she can get to further musing, or further heart-stuttering realisations; she realises they’ve already reached their destination.

 

“Well, see ya later, I guess?” Sandy says. Bobby nods thoughtfully, then, he cranes his neck up and kisses her forehead, too. He’s gone before the little  _ oh! _ can leave Sandy’s throat, and he waves to her as he disappears inside the nautical-themed eatery.

 

Sandy lingers there in the driver’s seat for the next two minutes and twenty-seven seconds, thinking about the warm press of his lips against her skin. 

 

\---

 

Not every day’s as productive as she pretends it is. Sandy Scudiero: Inventor. Sandy Scudiero: Scientist. Sandy Scudiero: lying on the roof of her van, taking photos of clouds and doodling on them to send to her brother. He’s pinged her one shaped like a hippo, and another shaped like their high school gym teacher riding a unicycle. That one’s  _ detailed _ , he’s even drawn her cellulite. All Sandy’s sent back is a stream of very similar looking flowers. All the clouds above the little town she lives in are shaped like flowers. At its most bare-bones, it’s kind of why she’s here in this town at all, she and all her weather equipment.

 

She receives a mini-barrage of messages when there’s a lull in the cloud-formation theatrics above. One, the latest in her sibling back-and-forth, and this one’s shaped like a turtle. Another, a request from Patrick to play some game called  _ Kooky Cupkeyks. _ The third, from Bobby;

 

**B [pineapple emoji]:** hey will u come back to the [crab emoji]??? i need ur help   
**B [pineapple emoji]:** URGENT!!!

 

Her thumb hovers over the keypad, wondering what the betting was on Bobby simply being  _ dramatic _ , rather than having a real crisis. She’s about to ask, but he beats her to it.

 

**B [pineapple emoji]:** theres a kid here havign a birthday and!!!   
**B [pineapple emoji]:** we dont do cakes!? there has been a CAKE DEMAND

**B [pineapple emoji]:** actually we do crab cakes but i dont think thats gonna fly   
**B [pineapple emoji]:** helppp!!!!!!!!!! :( :( :(

 

She decides it’s best to just call him. He picks up on the second ring, and from the sizzling she can hear in the background, it’s clear he’s probably got his phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

 

“--aw jeez, that’s not good. Sandy- Sandy? You there?”

 

“Yeah, I’m here. So you need a cake?”

 

“Yeah. But the kid is like... _ super _ demanding. He wants it to be shaped like a UFO. I’m talkin’ the  _ beam-me-up _ kind.”

 

“You want me to just...go buy one? It’s just I ain’t sure what they got down at the store ‘n I’m kinda… on the other side of town. I have a  _ lot _ of equipment out.”  _ Not that I’m using much of -- or any of it. _ “It’ll take me a while to put away - how soon do you need it?”

 

“As soon as is  _ humanly  _ possible. Hey--” His voice is suddenly muffled, but Sandy makes out,  _ Pearl! Please please please take this to table four and come back as soon as you can?  _ Then, “--so- so what do you think I oughtta do?”

 

Sandy thinks hard. The clouds float by above her, doing their usual floral thing.  _ It’d be great _ , she thinks,  _ if for once they’d be shaped like somethin’ else. A puppy, maybe. Or even a cone of- _

 

“Ice cream.” She says.

 

“Huh?”

 

“You got ice cream there?”

 

“Uh…” A few clatters, some indistinct muttering, and then, “Yeah, yeah we got a little bit of blueberry, some… mango sorbet? Chocolate, vanilla?”

 

“Perfect! Make the kid an ice cream cake! Just kinda...scoop it into the shape, right?”

 

Bobby’s silent for a moment, and then, “Sandy, you’re a genius.”

 

“I know.”

 

He chuckles. “Okay. I gotta get to it. Hope the kid’s not lactose intolerant!”

 

\---

 

It becomes clear that the clouds aren’t going to do anything crazy anytime soon, so Sandy calls it a day. She’s up on the roof to take one last cloud, stretching the imagination a little to turn it into a fried egg. Then she swings herself down through the window on the driver’s side, and autopilot takes her from the fields out on the edge of town to the little restaurant with the old wooden tavern sign.

 

Stepping through the doors, she catches the tail end of her fry cook friend conducting a group of customers through a warbling rendition of ‘ _ happy birthday to you _ ’ to the kid she assumes is the one demanding the mothership for his celebratory dessert. Bobby just finishes waving his arms as Mr Krabbe emerges from his office, hollering for Bobby to get back in the kitchen. An exaggerated sequence takes place -- Krabbe waving his fists, threatening docked pay. Bobby's sure to take a bow before he disappears back to the grill.  _ Duty calls, _ he says, with a salute. Then he looks directly at her and waves a hand, motions for her to follow him. She’s about to follow when she notices Edward’s eyes on her.

 

She’s not sure just how Edward feels about her. He calls her  _ Sandra _ no matter how much she insists on  _ Sandy _ , and he often eyes her outfits with distaste. More than once she’s sure she’s heard him mumbling about how  _ cowboy shirts really should be outlawed _ . But when she sidles up to the register, he sets his magazine down and suddenly strikes up conversation with the manager. Something about international exchange rates,  _ whatever _ , it’ll definitely keep Krabbe’s attention. Then Edward waves her into the back, and she mouths a grateful  _ thank you! _ to him over her shoulder. He winks, and she grins, taking his cue and ducking into the kitchen.

 

“Hey,” she says, shutting the door behind her. “So that worked, huh?”

 

“Yeah! You saw the kid’s face, right? Thanks for the idea.”

 

“Little do you know this, but I actually use  _ throw-some-ice-cream-at-it _ as my fix all for pretty much everythin’. Overheatin’ machinery. Antsy test subjects. My stress levels, after a real long day.” She yawns, stretching. “Anyway. The pullin’ it off? That was all you, Bobby.”

 

Bobby shrugs, grin bright as he turns back to the grill. “Are you hungry? I was gonna take my lunch break soon ‘cause the lunch rush is pretty much over. I’ll make you something, unless you can't stick around?”

 

“No, I’m not really doing anything. I can take you up on that offer, Mr Short-Pants.” She says, hopping up to sit on the empty counter, cocking a brow at Bobby’s shorts. He snorts with laughter, too focused on grilling to make any kind of retort. Whatever, it’s  _ summer _ . And the Krab’s uniform code really only goes for hat and name-tag.

 

“So how's all your research stuff?” He asks, side stepping across the kitchen for more ingredients.

 

“Eh… I guess it’s going okay.  _ Clouds _ , you know. Ain't really anythin’ to write home about.”

 

“ _ Do _ you write home?”

 

Sandy snorts. “Not as much as I probably should. Do  _ you _ ?’

 

Bobby shoots her a look over his shoulder. The  _ I visit my grandmother every Saturday and call my parents twice a week _ kinda look. Sandy rolls her eyes.

 

“Okay, okay. Not everyone's got the kinda relationship with their parents that you do, Bobby.”

 

“Well, that _is_ true. But if you wanted to, you know. You _could_ just call.” He grabs a tray, leans through to Edward, announces _I’m taking my lunch break now!_ (Edward merely gives a disinterested grunt) and then, placing two plates piled high with burgers-n-fries onto that tray, he turns back to Sandy.

 

“Order up! C’mon, we can hide out in the back.”

 

Sandy hops down from the counter and follows Bobby through to the little employee break room. It’s pretty tiny, but the table in there is at least big enough for two. A painting of a particularly grizzled pirate winks down at them. Sandy shudders.

 

Bobby slides one plate toward her.  _ No mayo, as you like it.  _ Pops the seal off a can of soda, then places that down too.  _ We only had lemonades left in cans _ .

 

“Thanks, Bobby,” she says, popping one of the french fries in her mouth. “You're a regular peach in a plum-patch.”

 

Bobby laughs, burger halfway to his mouth. “Your metaphors are  _ so _ weird. What’s that even mean?”

 

“Hm. I guess it just means you’re a bigger, hairier fruit in a patch full’a smaller, less hairy fruits.” Sandy replies, totally deadpan. Bobby’s face scrunches into an expression of real confusion, and then they both burst out laughing. It’s probably not  _ that _ funny, but it’s that sort of afternoon. And after the threat of Bobby’s mood going sour that morning, Sandy relishes the thought that her weird sarcastic brand of humour could tease a smile out of him.

 

They pick apart more southern similes over lunch, and when they’re done, Sandy hangs around to help clean up -- acting as Pearl’s replacement. The teenager had disappeared as soon as Sandy had offered her time - and as soon as Mr K had been assured that, yes, she  _ was _ doing it out of the goodness of her heart and no she  _ didn’t _ expect payment.

 

(Bobby had stared at her, eyes wide, looking like he had something important teetering on the tip of his tongue. But he’d said nothing, and waved Sandy off when she asked why he’d been looking at her that way.)

 

\---

 

Sandy drives Bobby back to Casa Starr-Porter, and they walk in step up to his apartment building. They walk so close their arms touch - at the bicep, at the wrist every other step, knocking against each other, the warmth bleeding through.

 

They stop at the door, and suddenly Bobby slaps his forehead, prompting a concerned  _ what!? _ from Sandy.

 

“All day! I didn’t think of anythin’ for the specials board!”

 

He looks about ready to launch into a  _ freak-out _ , but then he stops, very suddenly, and lifts a shaking hand to touch the front door.

 

There’s a little clay pineapple on it, orange against the yellow paint of the entrance to apartment 124. His forefinger traces the grooves of the decoration, and then he grasps her arm, looking half a moment from triumphant.

 

“Nevermind, I just got it. You know how people are always debatin’ about pineapple on pizza?”

 

\---

 

With plenty of time to spare, allowing our heroes enough time to watch  _ five _ episodes of the hit series ‘cove-spy’,  _ the pineapple party burger _ is created, christened, and consumed for the first time.


	3. ACT 1, PART 3: a brief visit home.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bobby waits on a text, and he and patrick go visit their parents. very much a bobby/patrick chapter.

Bobby doesn’t really _mind_ Mr K’s daughter. That is -- he doesn’t _dislike_ her or anything, but she’s not really an _enormous_ help around the Krab. He’s not sure, in the time he’s known her, that they’ve ever actually made proper eye contact. She does a _lot_ of looking down at her phone - come to think of it, she’s probably said more things to him via text than she has out loud.

 

(They exchange kitten memes semi-frequently. Every time he asks her whether or not she’s coming into work, he gets some kind of an only vaguely relevant _.gif_ as a response.)

 

“Hey,” she says to him, out loud. She taps him on the shoulder and he nearly drops the plate he’s washing.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Can you take it from here? I have like, an appointment at the mall.” She holds up her hand, palm towards herself, wiggling her fingertips to show off the one chipped nail on her ring finger. Her eyes aren’t on him, of course, and her thumb’s tapping out a text.

 

Bobby eyebrows pinch together. “Uh...sure, sure, I guess. I mean we’re pretty much done here already, just gotta put this stuff away and lock up.”

 

“Cool,” says Pearl, and she turns to leave, pink platform sneakers squeaking on the kitchen floor.

 

“Wait!”

 

She turns.

 

“Wait, wait, wait. I- I forgot to ask, before, but I’m _really_ gonna need help next week. Did your dad already tell you? About my specials week? You’re...you’re coming in, right? I know you have a school break or somethin’, right?”

 

Pearl shrugs. “Sure, I guess.” Bobby watches her, and imaginary subtitles saying _unless I find something better to do_ hover in front of her at chest-level. He can almost see the cat _gif._ Then before he can say anything else, she leaves, tossing an _‘i’ll text you!’_ over her shoulder, so he says _see you tuesday_ to empty air.

 

\---

 

“Hey Pat,” Bobby says, dropping onto the couch next to Patrick, who’s got a guitar in his hands today, instead of the usual video game controller. Pat’s fingers stop and he turns to Bobby, leaning back. He doesn’t talk, as per, for Pat’s a quiet guy, and while all their lives he’s come off dumb to the people around them, Bobby knows better. Patrick's eyes study him for a moment, and Bobby knows he gets it.

 

“Hey.” Pat says. “Your mom called me, said she couldn’t reach you. Figured it was the _no phones at work_ thing.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Bobby leans over, reaches for the guitar. Pat lets him have it. Bobby’s not _as_ good with the two extra strings a guitar has compared to a ukulele, but it’s not as if there’s anyone around to nitpick. “What did she want?”

 

“She asked if we could come over, actually. Like, tonight. I told her about your thing, your mystery menu? And she was all,” he pitches his voice up, “ _Aw, like mother like son, I’ve been tryin’ out some new pies. Experimentin’. You like pies, Patrick?_ And I was like, duh, Mrs P, you _know_ I do! And she was all, _I know sweetheart, I know you like pies._ ”

 

Patrick continues his little performance for a further three minutes, and recounts what Bobby assumes was the entire conversation. Bobby accompanies on guitar. The gist of it is this: there are pies at the Porter house. _Several_ . And they are delicious, _probably_ , and Patrick makes it very clear that he is very, very keen on the idea of taking Mrs Porter up on her offer.

 

Bobby’s parents live a few towns over, and moved there when the boys were twenty-two. It takes about an hour to drive down there, and Bobby calculates if they leave _now_ , they can be there before dinner. If they avoid snacks and snack stops, they can eat _several_ pies.

 

\---

 

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** sent a GIF.

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** me af

 

\---

 

Pat’s car is the flashiest, trashiest thing on the streets of Bikini Bottom. It’s some sort of _Cadillac_ rip off, open-top, old school, trying _desperately_ to be Elvis’ ride, but failing on a few important fronts. It _is_ pink, but it’s engine sounds like an elderly chain smoker, and none of the tyres match - they don’t have that whitewall look, and one of them is 60% bubblegum. He’d opted for the fuzzy dice, and he’s got six dashboard hula girls.

 

It was left to him by the late, great Uncle Mort, overweight Elvis impersonator and inspiration. Pat’s only even close to cool relative, Uncle Mort had been the guy to introduce a young Patrick Starr to rock ‘n’ roll. _His spirit lives on,_ say the boys, when they try that cool action hero slide across the hood sometimes, when they’re feeling really daring. _Thank you, Elvis!_

 

But in the end, of course, what matters most is that the car runs, if loudly and temperamentally. And there’s two pairs of mirror-lens shades in the glove compartment, so Pat and Bobby are guaranteed to look _extremely_ cool on the ride over. The sun’s still hot and high and blazing, and once they get going the welcome breeze feels pretty damn good. There’s even a chance it’ll dry Pat’s sweat patches.

 

“Hey, put on the road mix, will ya?” Patrick says. The hot rod is old, so of course it’s still got a cassette player. It’s the kind of thing the coffee shop hipsters Pat sometimes hangs with would _kill_ for. It’s one of the things that scored him an in with them in the first place. He waves a hand toward that all-important-indie-point-scoring dashboard radio, and Bobby obliges, hands fumbling for the little collection of tapes they have littering the floor somewhere. There’s the _get pumped for work mix_ Pat uses for the purpose as shown on the label, and the _in case you need to ‘say anything’ someone_ tape that hasn’t actually _ever_ seen action. But the tape in question is _road trip mix volume 6, the final jam_ . It’s the closest Patrick had come to capturing the inner soundtrack he’s got going on, and it’s got all his favourites. All the classics. It’s got _sweet victory_ , which, really, is the only power ballad you truly need.

 

“How was your day, man?” Patrick asks, as _highway to hell_ ends and they get into the opening of something more chilled out. Bobby’s pulled out of the daze he was about to slip into, and he sits himself up a little in his seat. His fingers toy with the zipper on his hoodie. _Up, down. Up, up, down._

 

“It was okay,” he says, knowing full well that it should have been _more_ than okay. This job is supposed to be his favourite thing, his dream -- at least until he’d started to get it into his head that maybe he wanted more _from_ it. “I mean, good as always, you know? Burgers in bellies. Smiles on faces.” He lifts his hands, waves them. “ _And all that jazz_.”

 

Patrick hums. “That bad, huh?”

 

Bobby sighs heavily. “It's just that I’ve got this whole dumb idea hanging over me _all_ the time. Edward even asked me if I was gonna be ready for next week.” Edward hadn't pressed the topic, though, and Bobby suspects it had something to do with his panic-under-pressure nature, his big tearful eyes. “I didn't even know what to say. I figured if I told him the truth it would just prove to him that I’m just a quote-unquote _stupid kid_.”

 

“How many times am I gonna have to tell you that that's _not_ true, buddy?” Pat says, eyes darting behind shades to give Bobby a concerned sideways glance. “‘Sides. If _you're_ a kid, then that makes me like, an embryo.”

 

“Pat, _you're_ older than _me_.”

 

Patrick snorts. “Not _mentally!_ Now c’mon. Crank that radio some. _Bon Jovi_ demands that we stop moping and sing along.”

 

\---

 

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** sent a GIF.

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** no no this one is you!!! look at her tutu!!! why i remember WAY back when...

 

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** ur the worst xoxoxoxox

 

\---

 

 _Bon Jovi_ takes them halfway there -- _there_ being the little town of _Evian Springs_ , where Mr and Mrs Porter now live. (The _B side_ of the tape gets them the rest of the way.)

 

Bobby's parents live in a picture out of _Better Homes_ , that absolute suburban dream. They've got a little lawn with stripes and there's not a seagull around to crap on the mailbox. Bobby’s fairly certain that’s the _only_ upside to moving away from their beach town.

 

“Oh man, I think I can actually _smell_ those pies from out here,” Patrick says, as he pulls up into the driveway, chin tilted upward, breathing in that sweet air. “They're right. There’s no place like home. Or, your mom’s home.”

 

 _Your mom’s home_ , but he doesn't say it like _your_ mom’s home. Just like ‘mom’s home.’ Maybe like ‘ _our_ mom’s home.’ Bobby grins, chest feeling lighter at the thought. It’s the little things that fill him with pride. It’s remembering Patrick’s synonymous with family, remembering that that’s how Pat thinks of _him_ too.

 

“Okay, then let’s not keep your belly waiting,” Bobby says, unbuckling. He vaults out of the car without bothering to open the door, and Pat gives him a nod, impressed - _nice,_ he mouths - before he slides his butt out of his own seat.

 

Mr Porter opens the door for them before they even get to knocking. He swings it wide open, mouth beaming below his moustache.

 

“My boys!” He declares, arms spread wide, tugging both of them down to his level for a hug. Mr Porter is shorter than Bobby, so _both_ Bobby and Patrick have to lower themselves. The younger two-thirds of the hug squeeze tight, and Mr Porter chortles, wheezing out how impressed he is by their strength. “I hope you two are hungry, Ma’s made enough to feed an army. I don’t know what’s come over her.”

 

“It’s gotta be somethin’ in the air, Mister P,” Patrick says, following Mr Porter down the hallway. “Bobby’s caught it too.”

 

The boy in question dashes to follow them into the living room, having been held up by the front door nobody else had bothered to shut. “Yeeeeah,” he says, stretching the word in a way people usually do when they don't actually agree. “I mean, I've been _trying_ , Pop, it’s just maybe inspiration's kinda come and gone. Don't think I'm as good at bein’ creative with cooking as Mom is.”

 

Mr Porter’s brows furrow for a second, but only that -- then his usual smile returns and he calls out a loud _‘darlin’, the boys are here!’_ to his wife. She answers with an equally loud _‘coming!’_ and soon enough bustles in through the doorway, beaming, rushing forward to greet Pat and Bobby in much the same way her husband did.

 

“Oh, I’m so happy you're both here! It’s been too long since you've come to see us, we’re almost starting to forget what you look like!”

 

Bobby laughs, titling his head towards the mantelpiece and all the many, many framed childhood photographs decorating it. There’s a few from before he knew Patrick, but the brunt of the photos are of the two of them. As elementary schoolers in poorly made _World Book Day_ costumes, as middle schoolers in boy scout uniforms, as high schoolers on prom night. (They didn’t have dates; they went with each other, arrived late, and left early in favour of a _Mystery Science Theatre_ marathon.)

 

The photo in the middle is the one Bobby likes best. All four of them together, when he and Pat were fourteen. He and his parents, he and his best friend. It had been taken one new years, back at their old house, before Pat had taken to dyeing his hair, back when Bobby still wore glasses instead of contacts. Patrick’s first new years as a part of the family, (though of course Bobby had counted him as such from pretty much day one.)

 

That really good one aside, the photographic timeline continues through to graduation, and beyond. The most recent is one from last year, at the _Porter Family Reunion Barbecue_ . Pat and Bobby attempting to play the same guitar. (It hadn't been _awful_ , but their performance wasn't special enough to go viral.)

 

“I believe it, Mom,” Bobby says, all smiles and no truth. His mother just leans forward and ruffles his hair, says something about it no longer matching up to the most recent photo. _We’ll have to take another before you go_ , she says, _but first! It's dinner time._

 

\---

 

Spin back a while, and Bobby and Patrick are in the part of the year where Patrick’s a year older, instead of them being the same age. He’s ten, but Bobby’s still nine. This is when Mrs Porter bakes her first pie.

 

It isn't _stellar_ , but to her credit, it's not a _bad_ first try. The crust is a little burnt, but it tastes good on the inside, once you've scraped away the charcoal. Blueberry, because it’s Bobby’s favourite -- and she makes a mental note on the lucky coincidence that that’s his little chubby friend’s favourite too. They devour the dessert without complaint -- and continue to do so every time she makes it -- at least until one day when she adds nutmeg, and then neither boy approves. So begins a spree of wild experimentation and daily pies which last approximately two weeks.

 

Now over a decade and a half later, history repeats itself at a fraction of the time.

 

“Mom,” Bobby says, staring with eyes saucer-wide at the dining room table. “Are we having...dessert _before_ dinner? Or is this more like… dessert _for_ dinner?” (The ten year old in him crosses everything for the latter option.)

 

“It’s dessert _for_ dinner,” says Bobby’s mother. (The ten year old in him rejoices.) “I’ve made every kind you can imagine. And maybe some you can’t.” (This is true.)

 

Mrs Porter has crafted a menu of epic proportions. There’s herring pot pie and something english she calls steak and kidney (but she’d opted only for kidney _beans_ ) but there’s marshmallow mermaid and a fruity no-bake and coconut cream and key lime with a little key shaped out of crust and then wilder, weirder ones in halves of sweet and savoury, threatening to meet in the middle into something yet untried and tested.

 

Bobby and Patrick waste no time digging in. Mr and Mrs Porter join in too, after the customary five second wait just to appreciate the sheer level of _gusto_ the boys have when food is involved - and suddenly nothing’s really all that different. It’s easy to be a kid again, when your parents are around and they love you. Patrick belches loudly and sings the praises of each slice he wolfs down - Mrs Porter laughs and laughs and thanks him, throws her head back with mirth and she’s got the same gap in her teeth that Bobby has, and you always see it when they laugh. Mrs Porter laughs a lot, and Bobby laughs too, but every time his phone buzzes in his pocket the worry keeps on gnawing at his insides.

 

Pat asks; _buddy, what’s wrong,_ when a joke fails to land with his partner in comedy, but Bobby just waves him off, and tries to swallow the worried feeling down with his bite of coulibiac.

 

\---

 

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** sent a GIF.

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** dont u think this one kinda looks like edward???

 

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** omg. definitely.

 

\---

 

Hours later, they’ve made a valiant effort, but Mr and Mrs Porter concede defeat on a shared two and a half pies in. Bobby and Patrick do a little better on a combined three and three quarters -- but by the end of the evening the pies win. By dark, several still remain, (and many are the less successful, though still perfectly edible rejects), but while Bobby and Patrick start making half hearted attempts to get their butts out of their seats, Mrs Porter insists they don’t make the drive back at night. Pat’s a surprisingly reliable driver, even when he’s singing along to classic rock at the top of his lungs - but he needs little excuse when it comes to being given an opportunity to be lazy. So though it’s not the house they grew up in, when Mr and Mrs Porter call it a night and disappear upstairs, the B.F.F club declare a meeting and reconstruct a bit of old architecture. Mrs Porter’s favourite throw will have to suffice, and the couch cushions aren’t quite perfect -- and they themselves are about _twice_ the size they were at the last meeting, but, why not? Soon enough they’re huddled up underneath the blanket fort and nothing’s really all that different.

 

“So what did you think?” Pat asks, as he watches Bobby shuffle himself around, trying to find the best spot in their nest of throw pillows. “‘Cause I gotta say I was _really_ feelin’ that pineapple pecan.”

 

Bobby laughs. “You would. And you know, I did too - but nothin’ beats the triple berry _a la mode_.”

 

“You know,” Pat says, patting his stomach and lifting a knowing eyebrow. “I think I actually counted _four_ berries in that one.”

 

“Oh, no kidding?”

 

“No kidding.” He grins, yawning wide enough to pop something out of place before he allows himself to collapse onto his side. “The nose knows. Or, the tongue. The belly. What _ever_ .” He slaps the lumpy makeshift mattress of cushions next to him with a dry _whomp_ sound, a wordless invitation to his friend to join him in the joys of stretching out parallel to the floor.

 

Bobby obliges, shuffling in close so their knees bump together, sweats against bare knees. He tucks his arm under his head but stares mostly at Pat’s scruffy chin, now three days unshaven. Bobby knows the gradient by now, and even if he can barely manage a bit of peach fuzz himself - he can always tell how long it’s been for Pat.

 

“Kinda weird being back here, right?” He says, looping a loose thread from one of the cushion covers ‘round his finger. Looping, unlooping.

 

“Fort B.F.F?” Pat’s eyes dance round, taking in the architecture. “I don’t think so. I miss the old roof, but what’s not to like about fluffy pink leopard print?” He shrugs, just a tiny jerk of the shoulder. “Maybe we should make it a permanent change.”

 

And then quiet. And then;

 

“It’s not a bad thing, you know. Not feeling awesome all the time.” Pat’s looking at Bobby’s eyes by now, but Bobby’s gaze has traveled further, focused solely on Pat’s neck. His little sea turtle charm, on leather string hanging ‘round. If he keeps his eyes down, Pat won’t know.

 

Pat continues. “I know you don't think I noticed earlier, okay, but I did. I _do_ . You’re the guy I always count on to be… I dunno, peppy? That makes you sound like a cheerleader, but you know what I mean, right? Everybody does, but I know… I know it’s rough. Buddy - I _know_ you’re scared about… your whole thing at the Krab. I know it’s been eatin’ you since Thursday. But I’m right here, you know, and you can count on _me_ if you need help. I mean - you said it felt weird, being here, but it's not a bad weird, is it?”

 

“No,” Bobby sighs. “I guess not. I mean -- it’s you and me, right?”

 

And all at once he’s laid himself totally bare, owning up to the flattest, most plainly presented truth he’s got. He’s known for being a sappy, sentimental guy, but he’s halfway to tears and there’s no real reason for the almost-outburst. Watery, he says, still trying to keep cool, “Nothing's ever that weird if it's you and me.”

 

Patrick makes a sound, a little sound between a breath and a laugh and it sounds like comfort and a cough and home all at once. It’s Bobby’s favourite sound, maybe. It’s one of -- it’s high up there. It’s not Pat’s outward, loud-voiced persona, it’s the softer, hushed part of him that only Bobby gets to see. Patrick shifts his knees, fabric rubbing against skin, and he says; “That’s right, buddy, and it’s always gonna be.”

 

Bobby makes an undignified noise, a sob and a laugh twisted up together and he snakes his arms around Pat as best as he can, burying his face in the squish of his best pal’s belly.

 

“Thanks,” he says, muffled. “You're the best, you know that?”

 

“I sure do,” Patrick replies. Then he takes a breath and Bobby’s sure he’ll say something else, something wonderfully _Patrick_ , but his own cellphone chooses that moment to vibrate loudly in between them.

 

It’s a cat gif from Pearl, shell emoji. The orange tabby in the IM window wears a pair of shutter shades and shrugs. The further text message beneath says ‘ _cant come in tuesday, got a date. sorry!!! xoxoxo’_

 

Patrick cranes his neck ‘round, so Bobby doesn't have to voice his disappointment or explain out loud.

 

“Huh,” says Pat. “That's…not great.” A sigh. “M’sorry, buddy. Kinda seems like she does that a lot.”

 

Bobby sighs. He’s not got the heart to even be angry, because Patrick _is_ right. She _does_ flake out more often than not, and Bobby hadn't really been counting on her. (Much as it’d pain him to admit, if he were the sort of person to go around _doubting_ people.)

 

“Nah, I figured she’d find a way out of it. It’s okay, I mean, this whole thing was my idea, I should be able to pull it off on my own. At least this time she _warned_ me. A lot of the time she just doesn’t bother.”

 

He sends an _okay, no worries_ , on texting autopilot as a response and then allows his phone to drop back into the gap between he and Patrick.

 

“She sounds like a real _diva_ ,” Pat says. “You’re probably better off. _I’ll_ help you. Mr Krabbe won't even notice the difference. My hair’s _just_ as big as hers.”

 

Bobby laughs again, wondering just _how_ Pat can do that and _keep_ doing that, make him laugh even when he’s trying to wallow in self-pity. Pat keeps going, pitching his voice up. “ _Oh sponge-boy, I’m too busy admiring my reflection to help you serve meat sandwiches to the peasants!_ ” His voice cracks, and he coughs. “Eh. Probably would’a worked better if we still had that tiara. You remember?”

 

Bobby nods, grinning. “ _Princess Patricia,_ of course.” The leading lady in all pre-teen make-believe games set in the middle ages. _Sir Roberto’s_ primary love interest -- since, of course, the B.F.F. club had always had a strict _no girls_ rule in place.

 

“Right,” Pat says. Then, in her voice; “ _Darn right._ ” Then as himself; “You know, I always kinda thought Mr K’s daughter was like Princess P come to life. They’ve even got the same initial! And the same favourite colour.”

 

“Yeah,” Bobby says, snaking his arms around Pat’s torso once more. His eyelids are starting to droop, and the disappointment of the day now out of the way, he finds he’s not sure what he was hanging onto awakeness for anymore. “That she does. That they do. _Yeah_.”

 

Patrick hums, a low rumble deep in his chest and he hugs back. Bobby’s eight tenths of the way to sleep when his eyes suddenly snap open.

 

“ _Pretty Princess Patty,”_ he says.

 

\---

 

Time isn’t noted down, because after coming up with the idea to use _conchas_ instead of a bun, one Bobby Porter is claimed by sleep. Nonetheless, when morning swings around, team B.F.F. count that one as a well-within-limits win, and the _Pretty Princess Patty_ is indeed born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i may need to start making these chapters shorter considering the word count and how not-far into the plot i am right now. takes me gosh dang ages to get these chapters out of my brain and into my google docs!
> 
> comments and kudos appreciated! thank you so much for reading <3


	4. ACT 1, PART 4: the youth centre.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i mention in the PLAYBILL that our heroes volunteer at a youth centre, because...that's, duh, such a cool thing for them to be doing. that's where they're going today. does this sound dumb? you ever wonder what you've dedicated months to writing? mannnn.
> 
> anyway. enjoy! edward's in this one too.
> 
> ALSO: 'theodora' was the closest approximation i could get to 'tetraodontidae.'

**B [pineapple emoji]:** me n pat are gonna be LATE IM SO SORRY!!!  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** pls pls pl s can you hold down the fort til we get there???  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** my kids know where the nets are but dont let them leave the building until i get there  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** oh or maybe you could teach them some MOVES i know thyre kinda the nerdy kids but if anyone could convince them ;)  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** ok ok ok i gotta go b there ASAP we are driving now

 

His obvious-through-text panic would be more founded if it wasn’t still only nine in the morning, giving him about an hour to make the ten-minute journey from his apartment to the youth centre, but Sandy figures there’s probably more to it than that. She shoots back a quick ‘ _no problem! x’_ and leaves it at that, before fluffing her hair and getting back down to preparations. On Sundays she’s _Sensei Sandy_ , and she forgoes her usual farmgirl chic aesthetic for her _gi_ , nicely accessorised with her black belt, and every time she goes to put it on her old first-day-in-town purple boots wink at her from where they stand stuffed in the back of her closet, looking sorry not to ever see the sun, if such a thing were capable for footwear.

 

 _I feel bad for you, boots,_ she thinks, _I really do, but it’s gonna be the flip-flops today_ . Perfectly serviceable, perfectly reasonable considering where she lives. They’re yellow, with pink daisies, the fabric of the petals now dusty from use. They’re _hideous_ , and they were bought a summer ago after her old purple pair had finally given up the gun. She’d worn the new ones on a beach outing with Bobby, and almost lost one of the sandals in the sea. The hot lifeguard there, Lenny or Lonnie or something had heroically braved the tides to rescue it for her. They went on one date. He’d worn flip-flops too, and he bought her an ice cream with two scoops. Strawberry and Mango. He’d flexed an awful lot, and at one point asked if it would be weird for them to wrestle. He’d walked her home, and that had been all.

 

(Bobby is never that keen to see her flower flip-flops.)

 

\--

 

“I hate to be _that guy_ , but can't this thing go any faster!?”

 

Bobby demonstrates a real lack of passenger etiquette, and leans himself half over onto the driver’s side, hands making a grab for anything he can reach. The steering wheel, if possible, but his fingers also find purchase on Pat’s hair, cheeks, and arms.

 

Despite this, Patrick stays unruffled. “Dude,” he says. “Relax, we got time. We got _tons_ of time.”

 

“We got twenty minutes! We’re forty-five minutes away!” Bobby says, shrilly. Patrick stops one of his flailing hands and pushes it back into his lap.

 

“ _Chill_ . Sandy’ll take care of it. Or Mrs Pöff. Someone. Anyone. _Don't worry._ Trust and believe in your girlfriend or failing that, your kindergarten teacher. One of them? _Got this_.”

 

Bobby huffs, but he settles back onto his own side of the car.

 

“ _Okay,_ okay.” And, briefly, silence, only the sound of the early morning open road. And then; “Are you _sure_ this thing can't go--”

 

“ _Yes._ Seriously. Otherwise I’m gonna wreck or somethin’ and then _what_ are we gonna do? Teach your class from beyond the grave?” His eyes slide from the road for a second, fixing Bobby with a hard look. Then he turns back to the road with a shrug, half a chuckle. “Actually, that would be awesome. Ghosts don't have to worry about butterflies gettin’ away from ‘em or nothin’. Can just fly right on after ‘em.”

 

“Aw, c’mon, don't say that. You'd never wreck.” Bobby sinks further into his seat. But he _is_ certain of that, at least - because he can always count on Patrick. And he does, he always would, could, will. He’s pretty sure he can count on _not_ having to teach his class from beyond the grave, but the thought shuts him up all the same.

 

\---

 

The youth centre’s an old building that’s technically part of the local high school, but so ugly and about half a mile out from the actual school building that the headmaster just lets it out free for whatever local organisation wants it. Mondays and Tuesdays the River Dance Society has it. On Saturdays, the Amateur Dramatics Society. There’s nothing on Wednesdays, or Thursdays, but some Friday evenings the War Re-enactment Society holds a meeting. Sunday morning-til-mid-afternoon, it’s for the actual youth.

 

Sandy arrives there early, and there’s not a kid or accompanying parent in sight. There is, however, the slim, unfamiliar-in-this-environment figure of one Edward Telford in the foyer, scribbling in the record book with his usual world-weary expression on. His glasses slide slowly down the narrow bridge of his nose, and one of the points of his shirt collar is flipped up backwards. He looks up when she comes through the doors.

 

“Sandra,” he says, in a tone that, for him, could actually be considered quite bright, shaded with relief. (For another, the tone could be considered lukewarm.) “I was beginning to think I was here on the wrong day.”

 

“Uh,” Sandy says, intelligently. “Nope, this is the right day, all right. Er, that is… um. What _are_ you here for, exactly?” _You do know these sessions are meant for elementary schoolers,_ she wants to say, but she holds her tongue.

 

“Singing lessons.” Says Edward, and again Sandy almost opens her mouth to bring up the average age of the class attendees, “Not _for_ me, I’m teaching. Covering - for Theodora.”

 

Sandy gives him another incredibly blank look.

 

“Theodora _P_ _ö_ _ff_ ,” Edward clarifies. “She’s off on her half-a-year anniversary date with Eugene,” he says, rolling his eyes. “No doubt he’ll show her how to paint the town red before it even hits noon. That man _loves_ his early bird specials.”

 

Sandy nods. “Okay. D’you know where you need to be goin’?” She asks, vaguely motioning toward the nearby hallway, starting in the direction of her own room. Edward leaps to attention, scrambling after her, skinny fingers pushing his glasses back up his nose before grabbing for the pile of sheet music he’d left on the table.

 

“No- I think I’ve only been here twice before. If- if you wouldn’t mind?”

 

“No, no, of course not--”

 

“Alright, then- after you--”

 

In his haste to catch up, Edward almost drops his sheet music, and Sandy catches a stray sheaf of paper before it hits the ground, then hands it back, expression bemused.

 

“Forgive me if this ain’t quite polite, but you seem a little _frazzled_ today, Edward.”

 

Edward scowls. “No, Sandra, it, as you put it, _ain’t_.” Then he sighs. “Sorry. I just wasn’t altogether prepared, Theodora only called me this morning. That and…”

 

They stop walking. Edward sighs yet again. “I’m not really very good with children. At the best of times I can’t handle _Robert_ , and he’s twenty-five.” He coughs a little, clearing his throat. “Children just don’t like me. I’d even go so far as to say they _hate_ me.”

 

Sandy smiles, holding back a laugh. There _is_ something endearing about Bobby’s glum neighbour, despite his usual grumpy exterior. The guy looks just on the edge of genuinely _upset_ , thinking already that his temporary stint as a singing teacher’s going to be a catastrophe.

 

“Aw, I think you’re bein’ too hard on yourself. Maybe these kids’ll surprise ya. You never know! And as for Bobby, well,” she waves a hand. “ _He_ just about thinks you’re the bee's knees. So if you’re usin’ him as a baseline, you oughtta have no problem!”

 

Edward still doesn't look wholly convinced. Sandy presses on. “I mean, you actually have some _trainin’_ in music, right? Mrs Pöff’s closest thing to music school’s her shower. I reckon the kids’ll be impressed.” She takes him firmly by the elbow and propels him along to one of the classrooms. “C’mon, let’s get you where you oughtta be.”

 

\---

 

“Also, girlfriend?”

 

“Huh?” Patrick snaps out of his driving-zone trance.

 

“Before. You said. Trust your _girlfriend_. Did you mean Sandy?”

 

Pat shrugs, but his mouth twists and Bobby can feel the tension rising between them. He immediately wishes he hadn't said anything at all.

 

“I guess,” Patrick says, in a measured tone of voice Bobby _knows_ is him really trying to keep cool. And Bobby _knows_ he shouldn’t persist, but he does anyway, mouth running before he can stop himself.

 

“Well she’s- I mean, we’re not _official_ , or anything. Like, we’re not _dating_ . I mean- we’ve been on _dates_ , kinda, but she’s never- _we’ve_ never said that we’re...going steady? She’s just a… girl friend. You know, with a space in between.”

 

Bobby eyes Patrick again, doesn’t miss the twitch of a muscle in his jaw. He can’t figure out just _why_ Pat’s reaction is so negative - after all, he’d _started_ it. And even despite Pat’s collected outward demeanour, Bobby worries he might just blow up about it -- but Patrick only sighs, shoulders drooping, and somehow that’s _worse._ But before Bobby can dig himself into a deeper hole by pressing the subject, Patrick steers his attention elsewhere.

 

“Hey,” he says, and his voice sounds brittle. “Turn on the radio, will ya? Maybe if we find something good on the classic rock channel, it might get the rest of the road movin too.”

 

Bobby nods, and he figures that’s where the whole thing will have to stay. There’s more important matters - and that’s getting to his class close enough to on-time that he can actually _teach_ it. And if Patrick believes in the power of classic rock, then so does he.

 

\--

 

Mrs Pöff’s music room is the same space the River Dancers use, and the chairs are all still stacked away. Sandy explains the usual setup, and, upon seeing Edward’s expression wither even further, she takes pity on him and helps to arrange the room in an approximation of its usual organisation, and about six minutes later, she adjusts the last chair and straightens up, beaming at the class’s new substitute teacher.

 

“Reckon that’s you just about set up. Say, you got the time?”

 

Edward doesn’t return the smile, and shakes back his sleeve to get a look at his wristwatch.

 

“A minute short of ten AM.” He adjusts his glasses again, and sniffs. “I think this is the latest in the morning I’ve ever managed without having Robert shout my eardrums into oblivion. Where _is_ he, anyway? I’d have thought he’d have camped here overnight so as not to be late.”

 

Sandy shrugs. “I’m not so sure. He sent me a text a little over an hour ago sayin’ he’d be late and needed me to cover for him ‘til he showed, but he didn’t explain just why.” Edward nods, looking only just _barely_ interested -- it’s clear he probably wasn't looking for a proper answer, but Sandy’s already started, now, and her voice cracks up as she continues. “ _Yeah_ , anyway. Seems like it’s covers all ‘round! I better get to it.” She lifts her hand in an awkward wave and darts for the door when Edward stops her with a short ‘ _wait_.’

 

“Thank you, Sandra,” he says, flatly, seriously, utterly genuinely. Sandy smiles again.

 

“No problem, Edward.” And he nods. Then she does leave the room, tossing a quick affirmation that she’ll send all his students his way, and that, _of course,_ he’ll do fantastic.

 

She gets halfway to her own teaching space on the other side of the room when she starts running into miniature Bobby Porters looking lost and troubled.

 

“Miss Scudiero,” says one, wringing the hem of his t-shirt in worried hands. “Mister Porter isn’t here.”

 

“Neither is Mister Starr!” chimes in another, a little girl with beads in her braids and glasses bigger than her face.

 

“They’re never apart!” says crumpled t-shirt,turning to beads-in-braids with an exasperated look. “Sally, come on. It would be weirder if there was just _one_ of them here.”

 

“But the point is,” says a third kid, stepping out from the now gathered group of kids all lost and teacherless. This kid tilts up his chin before he speaks, for his little fisherman’s hat almost entirely covers his eyes. “Neither of them are here. We don’t know what to do.”

 

Sandy places her hands on her hips and fixes the children with a serious look. “Alrighty, well first off, y’all can just call me _Sandy_ , there ain’t no _Miss Scudiero_ about it.” The three leading the charge nod sheepishly. “Second, they’re gonna be here, they’re just runnin’ a little late, is all. _So_ , Mister Porter himself says all of you bug experts are gonna come and join my class til he gets here. Whatcha say? You wanna learn some karate?”

 

The group of insect enthusiasts exchange looks, and none of these looks particularly scream _yes_. Sandy figures that’s about right, but if she could get Bobby keen on japanese martial arts, then she can probably sway his army of miniature geeks too.

 

Besides, if all else fails, she has an entire party selection of candy in her bag. She’d been saving it for an experiment, but she figures it'll do just as well for bribery.

 

\---

 

Pat and Bobby burst onto the scene roughly an hour late, falling over themselves with armfuls of butterfly nets. Sandy’s halfway through a more advanced demonstration when her friends make their appearance and throw her new students off their mark. A few pinwheel right out of control into their more seasoned karate classmates.

 

Sandy folds her arms.

 

“Excuse me, but just what do you two think you're doin’ interruptin’ my class and droppin’ bug nets all over everywhere?” She takes a challenging step forward, but there's no real reproach in her tone. Bobby and Patrick exchange looks, rising to the challenge.

 

“ _Your_ class? Why, you've got _our_ class here held hostage, good madam!” Bobby says, brandishing the butterfly net he had managed to hold onto.

 

“Yeah,” Patrick chimes in. “And everyone knows that _our_ class is the cool class.”

 

Bobby turns to the geeky children who’d ordinarily be cataloguing insects at around this time with a meaningful look.

 

“Ah, ah, _ah_ , no way José.” Sandy says, blocking Bobby’s eye line. “I reckon these guys here have found a new favourite activity. Guess you snooze you lose, little buddy.”

 

Bobby scoffs, further crossing Sandy’s makeshift dojo with Patrick at his heels. He makes a show of taking a deep breath and drawing himself up to full height. And then he stands up on tip-toe, since full height still doesn't quite put him at Sandy’s eye level. A few kids giggle, and Bobby’s serious, _ready-for-a-show-down_ face threatens to break with laughter.

 

“Oh, _what_ did you just say, Miss Scudiero?” He says, eyebrows lifting as high as they'll go.

 

“You. Snooze. You. _Lose_.” Sandy repeats, punctuating each word with a jab to his chest. Bobby reacts dramatically, stumbling backward as if she'd used real force. Helpfully, Patrick catches him, and he continues to be helpful by making sure to dust off Bobby’s shoulders too.

 

“Guys,” Bobby says, raising his voice to the room despite his eyes never leaving Sandy’s. “You all wanna come identify local _lepidoptera_ , right?”

 

A few of the bolder bug lovers chime in with some eager _yeses,_ but Sandy shushes them.

 

“Oh no you don't, y’all promised me you were gonna learn this _kata_ . Or do you _not_ want those gummy bears now?”

 

A general hubbub washes over the room with a couple mumbled _no fairs_ , when one Mister Starr interjects.

 

“You guys, I have an idea. Let's have a contest. If Bobby wins, then our team ditches Karate Town for the awesome Great Outdoors. If Sandy wins, then Bobby admits humiliating, crushing defeat and we can all laugh at him a whole bunch. How’s that sound?”

 

The children all laugh and murmur approval. Bobby scowls and slaps Patrick’s arm, but Pat just grins and shoves him off.

 

“Well, _okay_ ,” Bobby says, playing up his reluctance. “But what kinda contest?”

 

“We’re on my turf, ain't we?” Sandy says, slapping a firm hand down on Bobby’s shoulder. “Karate, obviously. Pull it off on your students’ behalf, and you’ll all go free.”

 

“Kara- _tay_ , okay,” Bobby says, lifting his arm out so he can place a hand on Sandy’s shoulder too. “Then kara- _tay_ it shall be.”

 

So Bobby bends down, unties his sneakers and kicks them away across the room. One makes loud impact against the wall, and Bobby winces and whispers _sorry_ to it. Then he straightens up, he and Sandy get into position, and they bow.

 

The match lasts all of twelve seconds. _Sensei Sandy_ well and truly thrashes the challenger, who finds himself lying on his back, dazed and confused.

 

Before he’s even back up again, he calls a rematch. And another, and another, and halfway through round four he hollers to Patrick so he can tag him in. This isn't exactly protocol, but neither has anything else been. So Patrick enters the imaginary ring, taking a sumo wrestler’s stance and squaring off to his opponent.

 

Sandy has never gone up against Patrick in a play-fight before. With Bobby, it's old and it's easy - she knows she can crush him, and he knows it too, so she barely ever even brushes him. He exaggerates every action, makes a meal out of being the loser if he thinks his goofing ‘round will tease a smile out of a bystander. He’d be delighted if she'd ever let him win - and they both _know_ it’d be her _letting_ him win - but she’d never do such a thing in the first place.

 

With Patrick, she doesn't honestly know what to expect. Whether he can take her. Whether she can take _him_ . He’s enormous, and massively strong, she knows. Can he use that strength, and use it against her, _on_ her? The thought makes her face flush, her heart race, though she can't place why that would be.

 

Bobby shouts _ding_ , and the round begins. Patrick keeps his stance low, and he’s still keeping up the sumo shtick. He advances with his hands on his knees, tilts his head, makes the _crack_ noise with his mouth, and then suddenly barrels forward with a surprisingly delicate sort of battlecry. Sandy, taken aback, snorts loudly with laughter, but still manages to sidestep him at the last second. Patrick whirls ‘round, looking befuddled, and Sandy mimes waving a _matador’s_ red cloth.

 

“ _Toro!”_ she shouts, and Patrick grins, playing up to it. He makes the grumbling, rumbling snort of a bull, kicks up imaginary dust and Sandy doesn't bother to conceal her laughter. He runs at her again, and in her head the cloth shimmers scarlet over his huge, hulking form as it swerves ‘round and past her. Down and around he goes, and she keeps imagining her cloth. She gets caught up in the movement of it, stepping in and out of his way, waving her arms, her invisible crimson scarf, and it becomes a dance, not a fight. He comes in and out of her space, close to touching but never doing so - and she forgets, for a moment, to be funny, because when he slows and stops in front of her, suddenly looking straight into her eyes, she forgets there's an audience at all.

 

She wonders if she could find a real rhythm with him, not just a rapport by association, the tack-on to Bobby. She wonders if he felt something, the way she did when his arm almost brushed hers.

 

Then Patrick kills the moment when his calm smile turns devilish. Before she knows it, Sandy’s been grabbed around the waist and inelegantly tossed over Patrick’s shoulder. All the sound in the room returns and kids giggle with amusement as Pat preens and parades around. He declares himself the winner and acts totally unbothered by Sandy’s fists beating furiously at his back.

 

“ _I am the chaaampion,_ ” he croons, off-key. “So what I say goes. And _I_ say… we ditch karate for mine and Bobby’s lesson instead. Besides, there's no real _danger_ in here,” he waves the hand not holding Sandy around at the makeshift dojo. “ _True_ badasses learn all about how to battle _the great outdoors_.”

 

“Bad _butts_ !” Bobby corrects, jumping in for the sake of young ears. There are giggles all ‘round. “But this bad butt is _right_ , it _is_ super cool out there.”

 

He leans back, limbo-style, and catches Sandy’s eye. She rolls her eyes and gives him a limp wave of the hand, defeated, and he beams and flashes her the double thumbs-up in return.

 

“Okay! C’mon everybody, let's get ready. Next stop: _the wild_.”

 

\---

 

The wild is what Bobby calls the large meadowlike patch of grassland just down the road, which stretches out right to the town border, and eventually melts off into the beach, which in turn melts off into the sea. It’s full of hardy little plants, daisies that spring up no matter the weather, forget-me-nots that peek out through the green. And other, brighter, stranger blooms Sandy never saw back home in Texas, things she doesn’t know quite the name for, things she’s sure belong underwater, not up here on land.

 

She comes here, sometimes, as it’s a good spot for her weather equipment, or just for a walk, and it’s pretty, but she’s pretty sure she’s never really _had_ to appreciate it quite like this.

 

All around her, kids swing butterfly nets with reckless abandon. Up ahead, Bobby leads the charge, occasionally throwing in a haphazard karate chop to keep the sportier kids’ attention. He’s waxing lyrical about _proper technique_ and lighting up the way he always does when he’s excited, beaming out from all the way across the fields.

 

Sandy's still trailing along at the very back of the group, watching it happen. Bobby’s halfway through an impromptu poem about the beauty of the _everes comyntas_ when he clocks a butterfly and deftly catches it out of the air with his net, flipping the hoop round so it doesn’t escape before he can show it off. As she catches up, she hears Bobby explain his find -- a zebra swallowtail, _eurytides marcellus_ , and _definitely_ unusual to see ‘round here, but _gosh, isn’t it pretty? Somebody must have helped it hitchhike all the way down here._ He tells his enraptured audience about the butterfly’s favourite foods, it’s life cycle, and even pulls out his phone to show them all just how _cute_ it was as a caterpillar. Then, as an aside, he reveals gory details about the brutality of nature, and how the mothers have to lay eggs _really_ far from each other, because the caterpillars may be cute, but they’re also _cannibals_.

 

The children, (Sandy’s karate kids especially,) giggle with horrified delight, and Sandy finds herself laughing along, just as hooked on Bobby’s lesson as they are. She’s so caught up, she barely even notices Patrick ‘til she realises he’s suddenly stood right next to her, no net in hand, looking… solemner than he usually does.

 

“You know,” she says. “Maybe it’s a good thing you beat me. My kids totally love this _horrors of the outdoors_ stuff. Bobby can really hook an audience.”

 

Patrick shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.” He sniffs, rubbing his nose. “He’s good at this.”

 

Sandy nods, eyes narrowing. Patrick doesn’t look at her, only at Bobby, but not with the usual lazy grin she’s come to know from him. He’s looking at Bobby with something she can’t place in his eyes, and Sandy wonders if the two of them had some kind of falling out, if that’s the reason they were late. She wants to ask, but she doesn’t. She just looks up at Patrick, looking at Bobby, and the sun shimmers around him like the scarlet cloth she’d imagined, and he looks so sad she wants more than anything to wrap her arms around him and--

 

Well, she’s got no place to do that, anyway.

 

“Thanks for letting me win,” Patrick says, and Sandy snaps out of it when his eyes suddenly meet hers. She blushes.

 

“Oh- I, I didn’t,” she starts, but he raises his eyebrows and there’s a quirk to his mouth, and just like that, she realises maybe _he’s_ the one letting her win. “Aw,” she says. “Shut up. If you came to sparring sessions with me and Bobby, who knows. _You_ could actually beat me.”

 

Patrick only shrugs, turning away once more - but he’s still got half a sad smile on, and Sandy’s heart aches suddenly, deeply, more than anything.

 

They continue to listen to Bobby’s lesson, together, and silent. After about forty-five minutes of exploring the vast outdoors, Bobby declares it’s time for snacks, and this is met with all-round approval. The combined classes make their way back to the centre, and Sandy and Patrick head up the back of the group, walking in a quiet that treads the thin line between easy and un. A few of Sandy’s karate kids double back to ask whether or not they’ll combine classes again, and she looks to Patrick, who shrugs yet again.

 

“Well, why the heck not?” Sandy says, still looking at Pat. He grins and winks at the kid, who beams and dashes back away. And that’s that, until they get back inside.

 

Bobby’s already led the charge to the kitchen, and he and a couple miniature explorers are already scratching their heads over Kool-Aid and Tang measurements. They end up producing very concentrated Kool-Aid, and very watery Tang. Sandy gets a Tang, and hates it. Patrick finishes it.

 

“Guys,” Bobby says, when everyone’s sat on the floor together with cups of reconstituted powder beverage and, if they’re lucky, a couple gummy bears. “Say you could create _any_ kinda burger. What would you put on it?”

 

There’s hushed discussion for a while, and then voices start piping up. What would you put on a dream burger? _Everything_ . _Veggies,_ only _veggies - no bread, just big ol’ slices of tomato. Saltwater taffy. Bacon. Jelly beans. Another burger. Glitter_.

 

Bobby types everything frantically into his phone. The suggestions get progressively more unusual - _so, where_ do _I even get unicorn meat? That just seems mean_ \- and keep going right up until kids’ parents start showing up to whisk them away. All three teachers stand up to greet the parents and say goodbye, and all three exchange looks when they overhear a mother chiding her son for trying to eat crayons.

 

Bobby looks to his friends, and the turn of cogs in his head is plain and obvious.

 

“ _No,_ ” Sandy says, right as Patrick says _yes_.

 

“It wouldn't have to be _real_ crayons,” Bobby assures them. “But anyway, I’m pretty sure I’ve seen like, blue ketchup in the store. Who’s to say I couldn't just _draw_ some crayons?”

 

Sandy winces. “Blue ketchup?”

 

Patrick looks thrilled. “ _Blue ketchup._ ”

 

“It’ll work,” Bobby says, looking pleased with himself. “I’ll get started on it later -- d’you guys wanna hang out now that we’re done with the kids? We could go get ice cream or something.”

 

“Well sure, I’d love to.” Sandy says. “Let me just grab my stuff.”

 

She ducks back into her own room and makes sure to account for any hypothetical lost items, stacking a stray chair away before deeming the room satisfactorily tidied. When she gets back out to the lobby, she notices Edward just leaving.

 

“Edward!” She calls out to him, waving him over. “How’d your first day as a music teacher go?”

 

Edward moves to join them at a half-march, a brisk step that one _could_ call peppy, if it didn't look quite so militant.

 

“Not horribly.” He says. “We got through the song. And -- I didn't make any of them cry, at the very least.”

 

“Eddy!” Bobby gives Edward a playful punch to the arm. “I didn't know you were teaching here now! And your first day too! You really shoulda told me, we’d have thrown you a welcome party!”

 

Edward frowns, dusting his arm off where Bobby’s knuckles had made contact. “ _I_ didn’t know it was going to be my first day either.” He looks to his younger acquaintances, and sniffs. “First and _only_ , I might add. This was merely a _substitute_ job, and Theodora will resume her position next week.”

 

“Aw,” says Sandy. “I reckon you took to those kids and now you're real torn up about it only bein’ a one time gig.” She places a hand on his arm, and stifles a giggle as he scowls. “Doesn't he look torn up about it, boys?”

 

Bobby and Patrick’s faces both screw up into similar expressions of thoughtfulness.

 

“Y’know, Sandy, I think you're right. Our Ed’s looking _super_ blue. I think _he_ needs ice cream even more than _we_ do!”

 

Edward scoffs, making a noise of protest, but Sandy just squeezes his arm a little tighter, and bats her eyes at him. Bobby clasps his hands over his heart, his own eyes wide, while Patrick just nods. The combined effort of non-verbal pleading and mild physical threat proves effective, and so Edward rolls his eyes, conceding defeat.

 

“Oh, _alright_ , if you three insist.”

 

And insist they do. Sandy and Patrick each take an arm, and Bobby directs them them of the building as if they're on an aeroplane

runway, waving them forward and speaking into an imaginary walkie talkie. His friends play off him and play it up until they get out into the street, where they fall into a respectable, less loud formation.

 

Sandy half expects to fall back into step with Patrick or maybe even half-hopes it, but instead she finds herself behind him, with Bobby at her side. He looks down, and eyes her dusty daisy flip-flops with his usual look of mixed feeling.

 

“Ah, Sandy,” he says, looking up at her properly, really addressing her for the first time that day, all playfighting aside. “Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. Thanks for covering for me today. I didn't actually think my kids would get into karate, but you did it!”

 

Sandy laughs. “Aw, that’s nothin’. They were hesitatin’ the whole time. Not like my kids once you got ‘em out in the open.”

 

“Hey, are you kidding? I almost couldn't tell my students from yours out there, almost every kid was tryna dice up the landscape with some karate chop action. You done good, Miss Scudiero, you done good.”

 

“Why _thank_ you, Mister Porter,” Sandy laughs. “Say, howcome you two were so late anyways?”

 

“Oh,” Bobby shrugs. “We went back home to see my parents. Well, not _home_ home, obviously, but-- well, anyway. We stayed overnight, and then I forgot to set an alarm so we woke up with no time.” He sighs. “It _was_ worth it though. My mom - it was a baking day for her. She gave us _so_ much pie. She would not let me out of the _door_ without taking some. A _lot_. Say, you like pecans, right?”

 

Sandy smiles, imagining it, and a little pang strikes her right in the chest when she remembers how difficult it is for her to just up and _go home_ , how rare it is for her to see family. She should text her brother. He’d sent her another cloud that morning, and it makes her miss him. But she pushes past the feeling, gives Bobby a nod, an affirmative hum, and he grins. “Great, then that one's yours.”

 

They continue on, making idle pie chatter ‘til they get to the ice cream parlour, a gaudy, leftover 1980s looking building with a big fibreglass sundae on the roof, bleached and faded from years in the sun. Sandy catches Edward surveying the kitschy decor with distaste as they enter - but he holds his tongue, so there's no need for her to intervene.

 

They all slide into a booth, and Sandy considers just what an unusual quartet they must look - three twenty-somethings, one decked out in full _karategi_ , the other two in clashing patterned shirts, and all three smooshed in around a guy twenty years their senior. At a glance, you might think a bunch of tipsy college students had forced their history professor out on a weird sort of date -- that or he’s chaperoning.

 

“You three come here often?” Edward asks, looking to the menu mounted on the wall.

 

“I don’t come as much as these two.” Sandy says.

 

“We used’ta come here all the time.” says Patrick. Bobby nods eagerly.

 

“Yeah! With Uncle Mort!” He launches into animated explanation. “Pat’s uncle, he was this Elvis impersonator. The _coolest_ guy in the world - he gave Pat the car.”

 

Edward nods. “Ah, so _he’s_ the reason I have to put up with you two and that monstrosity.”

 

Bobby laughs. “Yep! God bless his soul. _Anyway_ , when we were kids and he was in town, he always took us here and the three of us’d try to finish the _Bellyache_.”

 

Edward cocks an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

 

Patrick elbows Bobby. “Dare we _order_? There’s four of us now.”

 

Bobby’s grin spreads wide across his face. “Patrick, you’re a genius. Plus, we’re bigger now, too. C’mon, we’re gonna do it.” He hops up out of his seat and dashes over to the counter to place their order. The employee there nods with absolutely no enthusiasm whatsoever, and Bobby flashes him a cheerful double thumbs up before returning to his friends.

 

“Serious question,” says Sandy. “Just what _is_ this bellyache?”

 

“The _Bellyache_ ,” Bobby says, emphasising the capital B, “is the fourth biggest sundae available to purchase in the country. It’s fifteen scoops, one for every flavour they got, and so far team Pat-Bob-Mort has been defeated _every. Time._ However!” He snakes his arms around Sandy and Edward’s shoulders, his left hand just managing to brush Patrick. “I think today, team Pat-Bob-Sand-ward stand a _seriously_ good chance at winning.”

 

Sandy and Edward exchange worried looks. Bobby and Patrick get caught up in their own little trip down memory lane, laughing about all their previous attempts. _It sucks they don’t have the wall of fame anymore, huh? No? Yeah -- or the wall of shame, either._ Bobby gets midway through an anecdote about attempt number fourteen when the server arrives, staggering over with a dish as big as the standard kitchen sink. Edward balks.

 

“You _can’t_ be serious.”

 

Bobby only laughs again, laughs the way he often does when Edward looks displeased -- it’s proportionate, every time -- and hands him a spoon. “I am _super_ serious. Team Pat-Bob-Sand-ward! We got this!”

 

\---

 

Sandy is eight years old when she wins the local hot-dog eating contest. There’s a commemorative photo on her parent’s mantlepiece back home, and the blue ribbon’s pinned to the noticeboard in her apartment. It’s not an achievement she’s especially proud of in the present, but it’s her skill with competitive eating that helps them put the _Bellyache_ in it’s place. ( _For all officials_ , she says, wiping her mouth on a gaudy floral napkin, _it should be noted that Mister Edward Telford is a mighty terrible team player and only ate about three spoonfuls._ )

 

“Mister Robert S. Porter,” she says, gesturing to the young man sitting with his forehead pressed to the table. She rubs his shoulder with amusement and tender affection. “Mister Porter here put up a real good fight, but was tripped up by killer brain freeze four sevenths of the way in and had to call it quits. But his defeat was _not_ in vain!” She lifts her fist and the imaginary microphone clutched in it up to Patrick, who belches inelegantly. Sandy rolls her eyes. “A- _hem_. It was not in vain, for Mister Patrick Starr, the victor for the second time today, consumed the final spoonful of- what was it, Mister Starr?”

 

He leans in to the ‘mic’, dragging the back of his hand across his face to clear away the last bit of “- _garlic_ , Miss Scudiero, it was garlic flavour.”

 

“ _Ech_ ,” Sandy makes a face. “Only you could’a done it, Patrick.”

 

“All for the memory of Uncle Mort,” Pat says, holding a hand to his heart. “They might not have a wall of fame anymore, but we need to take a picture anyways.” He slides his phone across the table to Sandy, who catches it without even the slightest fumble. She catches an impressed glint in his eye, and extends her arm to take the photo, shuffling herself as close to her friends as she can.

 

\--

 

**new photo post by starrman78:**

 

_four friends. one giant ice cream sundae. for M.E.S. - a bellyache all ROUND._

 

\---

 

Try as he might, Bobby can’t convince Edward to come in for pie. He makes a minor scene in the car park of their apartment block, but no amount of goofy melodrama can sway Edward -- _Five hours and fifteen ice cream scoops together is_ quite _enough, thank you_ . He does, however, once he’s reached his own front door, give his three friends a short, curt _thank you_ , and means it. Then he warns them to _keep it down, for goodness sake,_ before disappearing into his home

 

And then there were three.

 

“Nothin’ to do tomorrow,” Bobby says, as he, Pat and Sandy collapse on the couch together, and they’re just practiced at it enough that nobody gets any limbs trapped where they shouldn’t. “‘Cept burger number five. But for today- like, so what do you guys think. ‘Cause _I’ve_ been thinkin’. Couldn’t get the idea out of my head all day. How does _the crayon’s crusader burger_ sound?”

 

\---

 

It’s the first burger to come with backstory. Patrick draws the crusader up a flag on the back of a junk mail advertising a new workout regime. Sandy improvises their hero a little rap theme song. Bobby gives acoustic accompaniment on a rubber band stretched over a tissue box, and Patrick looks up online how easy it is to get blue ketchup.

  
They make the test version with red, and over a heated monopoly game, served with a generous side helping of pecan pie, _the crayon crusader’s burger_ makes it onto the menu.


	5. ACT 1, PART 5: the day before.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this chapter written in the brief spots on my recent vacation when everybody else was asleep, and i was not, just tappin' out fic on my phone in google docs. i never stop, ever.
> 
> also: you'll have to start bearing with me a little. there's a lot of conversations about getting together coming up, and i'm yet to reach the part where they get resolved. in the mean time: NEIGHBOURS BEING NEIGHBOURS.
> 
> this chapter should be a little shorter, and the next one will be posted by next week!

With nothing to do, nobody wakes early. That said, Bobby is still the first to rise. He comes to on the couch, with his head in Sandy’s lap and his legs across Patrick’s. Last night’s dinner’s left its remnants as stale crumbs on the arms of the couch, and the floor. Bobby grimaces, itching to clean it up, but in the moment he’s awoken to, he’s hesitant to move, lest he break the spell.

 

Pat sleeps in a sprawled out manner, his head tipped backward, neck against the back of the couch. His hair, as it does, has long since fallen from its overly-styled pompadour, and loose strands curl across his forehead. The look of it reminds Bobby of their childhood, before Pat was such a pro with pomade. When his hair wasn’t so long and he hadn’t quite found his style yet, and the two of them had got all their clothes from the thrift shop in town. He remembers drowning in tee-shirts three sizes too big for him while Pat would squeeze into stuff two sizes too small. He remembers how much they’d laugh and insist upon the ill-fitting clothing for comedy purposes, but always switch after. And he remembers the purple baseball cap they’d found there, and the way it’d cover the floppy bit of hair that would curl across Pat’s forehead.

 

Sandy sleeps with her arms around one of the pillows from Bobby’s room. Yesterday’s makeup was hastily removed before the three of them had crashed for the night, but there’s still just a smudge of lilac powder at the corner of her eye. She wears lilac most days, except on special occasions, where she wears darker powder on her eyes, and red on her lips. Bobby’s seen her look that way only a few times, and mostly in photos. She’d looked pretty, she always  _ does _ , but different, not like the Sandy he’s used to, who always wears lace and ripped denim shorts. The Sandy that’s here, now.

 

 _And it’s nice, here_ , he thinks. _With both of them, together. With all of us._ _In an ideal world, this is how it would always be._

 

Bobby’s always had Patrick, of course, and in his head it's always going to be that way. He can't see a future without Patrick in it, because all he remembers thinking back is that Pat’s there. Always has been -- there wasn't really anything before.

 

With Sandy it's becoming not so different. She’s not new to him now, not anymore, and sometimes when he pictures it, years down the line, when he and Pat are famous and retired and happy, Sandy’s there too. He wants her to be, more than anything, and hopes for it too, but there's a pang of something inside him when he does. It’s that off look about Patrick that he  _ knows _ Pat doesn't think he sees -- an uncomfortable twist to his mouth sometimes when Sandy’s mentioned, when Sandy’s around. Bobby knows that they probably both know  _ him _ better than they know each other. (A part of him wonders if the more appropriate word to use there is  _ like _ , but he tries not to think that out loud.)

 

He’s fairly certain they don't hang out together without him - he’ll admit he’s wondered of they even like each other at all sometimes, but things had seemed  _ different _ yesterday. At the centre, and the fight. Patrick had said  _ girlfriend _ and looked sad, Patrick had spent the lesson at the back, with Sandy.

 

And he had won the fight, and whether or not Sandy had  _ let _ him win, he’d bested her, and for Bobby a lightbulb clicks on --  _ does he like Sandy? Is he jealous? Of me? And her? Is that it? _

 

Suddenly he feels strange to be here, on the couch, between them. And with this new thought weighing heavy in his head and hard on his chest, it really does feel like  _ between _ and not  _ together _ .

 

_ Stop it, _ he thinks to himself.  _ Stop _ .

 

Slow and careful as he can, he moves first his legs, then lifts his head. His friends stir, shift, but don’t wake, and he allows himself to breathe a sigh of relief, allows his head to drop into his hands. He takes a deep breath, and then another, and then one more. He turns and first he looks at Patrick, then at Sandy.

 

_ I’m jumping to conclusions, and there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll talk to them, when they wake up. I’ll figure it out _ .

 

Patrick snorts in his sleep and Bobby all but springs from the couch, far too wound up to handle anything.

 

\---

 

He decides it's best to get some air. It’s nine-thirty in the morning, bright and crisp on a Monday. Mr Krabbe, Garfield-esque,  _ loathes _ mondays, and therefore the Krab doesn’t open ‘til tuesday. It throws Bobby’s weekends out a little differently to the standard, but when both your best friends work to their own schedules, it’s not as if he’s left with no-one to pass the time with.

 

He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, which is gross, but he’d rather not wake the others by clattering about the apartment getting ready -- so he slips out of the door and hopes nobody notices. The guy in the convenience store certainly doesn’t, for he doesn’t even really look up. Bobby leaves, bag of bagels clutched in hands that stick, sweaty, against the plastic wrap, and half-runs back to his apartment building - but he doesn’t head for the pineapple door. Bypasses it, makes a beeline for the one with the easter island head door knocker.

 

He does his usual jaunty little knock, second nature, even if the worried crease in his brow doesn’t quite match up to the cheerful rhythm.

 

Inside, the sound of woodwind melody stops, and there’s a grumbling, the shuffling of footsteps, a further grumbling, the turn of a key, the click of the lock, and then the sound of the door swinging open.

 

“Robert.” says Edward, eyes expectant over the frames of his glasses. He’s still in his pajamas, slippers, and robe. Bobby lifts the bag of bagels.

 

“Uh...breakfast? Can I come in?”

 

Edward’s gaze slides down to the bag, his nose wrinkles a fraction. Then he nods, opening the door wider and gesturing wearily for Bobby to enter. “I suppose so.”

 

Bobby steps in, making sure to wipe his battered sneakers. Edward disappears into the kitchen, and Bobby follows, holding out the bagels. Edward takes them wordlessly, and begins toasting, still just as silent.

 

“So…” Bobby starts, fidgeting with his hands now they’re empty.

 

“So I have strawberry jam, and apricot.” Edward says, opening cupboards and pulling out jars. “Cream cheese, and plain yoghurt.” He crosses to the fridge, takes out that and more. “And grapefruit juice, but I don't imagine you'll like it.”

 

Bobby winces, and Edward gives a quiet, bemused chuckle. “I thought that’d be how you’d react. So I suppose you aren’t just here to offer me a lackluster breakfast?” Edward says, turning away to busy himself with filling the kettle, preparing tea.

 

“Yeah, yeah, no.” Bobby says, his voice small. “No, I- I was just hopin’ to get some advice, is all.”

 

“Oh yes?”

 

“Yes. Look- It’s probably nothing, but did you… did you notice anything weird about Pat and Sandy yesterday?”

 

“Not particularly. I have to say I  _ was _ surprised about how easily Sandra got through all of that frozen slop yesterday, but Patrick seemed the same as ever.”

 

“Right, right.”

 

“I take it  _ you _ noticed something you thought was odd?”

 

Bobby swallows around the lump in his throat and Edward turns back to him, the clink of his teaspoon against ceramic tapping out a beat like a metronome and Bobby suddenly feels very put on the spot.

 

“I, well...yeah, I thought so, but I guess it was mostly before we met up with you.” He sighs, and drags his hands down his face. “Maybe I’m just being stupid.”

 

Edward keeps stirring, but says nothing. Bobby wilts. “Y’know, that’s usually people’s cue to say,  _ no, of  _ course _ you're not being stupid! _ ”

 

Edward only raises his eyebrows, and Bobby groans. “ _ Uggghhhh. _ I just-  _ just- _ what do you think, you think Sandy would go for Patrick?”

 

“Isn't she with you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“Well?”

 

“ _ Well, _ ” Edward gives his tea a cursory sip. “ _ I  _ can't say I think they're a particularly good match. But I suppose they say opposites attract?”

 

“So you... _ don't  _ think they like each other?”

 

“How could I possibly know? You know them far,  _ far _ better than I do, Robert.” He sighs. “Do  _ you _ think they ‘like’ each other?”

 

Bobby wilts, scowling into the toasted bagel he’s handed. Edward steps back, waving the hand not holding his tea at the various spreads on the counter. Bobby reaches for the strawberry jam, and considers his response.

 

“I think… they could. I think… maybe they do, but it's a new development? Maybe.”

 

Edward nods. “Alright. Then  _ maybe _ this is a better question. Do you ‘like’ Sandra? And don’t just say yes, because I know you  _ like _ everyone. Do you have feelings - and I mean  _ romantic _ ones - for her?”

 

Bobby doesn't have to think about that. This is normal, it's the butterflies in his stomach when she's around, they’re the romance on the screen, in every movie and TV series he's ever seen. “Yes.”

 

“And Patrick? How do you feel about him? I know you love him, and I know you consider him like family. But do you think of him like a  _ brother _ , or do you have feelings for  _ him _ , too?”

 

Bobby hesitates. This is not the movies, this is what he hates, this is what scares him. Having to choose, the thought of having to choose.

 

“ _ Well _ ?”

 

“I’m thinking!”

 

“I fail to see what there is to think about, it’s a fairly simple yes or no.”

 

“I can't choose between them!” Bobby says, loud. “I can't choose between them.” he says, quiet. His half jam-smeared bagel ends up crushed in his hand and his eyes are blown wide, heart pounding in his ears.

 

Everything's frozen, still and teetering on the precipice of a teenager-like tantrum, until Edward's hand comes to rest on Bobby’s shoulder.

 

“Steady.” Says Edward, and Bobby stays motionless. “Steady.” Edward wrestles the crushed bagel from Bobby’s clenched fingers, grabs him a paper towel, and steers him into the living room and onto the couch.

 

\---

 

Edward is older, and he considers Bobby and himself to be close to worlds apart, but they aren't. He grumbles and gripes and does his best to keep his younger colleague at a good arm’s distance, but Bobby has an endearing sort of a  _ way _ , and, well, though he’d deny it with real fervour - even Edward has a heart.

 

Bobby had reminded him a little of himself, of course. Spinning the tape back, when it's the first day they meet, and Bobby shuffles into the Krab with his wits and his hair on end, Edward had seen himself, young and starving, opening himself up to anyone's mercy for the fear of not amounting to anything. Krabbe had been all set to tell Bobby no and it had been almost like  _ deja vu _ for Edward, who urges Eugene to say yes before he can really even process what it is he’s saying.

 

He’d hoped that’d be as far as it’d need to go, but then years go by and Bobby insists on sharing everything he’s got - his past, his stories, his jokes, his opinions -- and his gratitude, in each  _ hey, Ed, thanks for lookin’ out for me, Ed, thanks for not lettin’ me drown out there. _

 

Bobby might be close to drowning  _ now _ , with his head in his hands and great fat tears rolling down his face and this massive, massive overreaction of his.

 

After a few minutes of listening to Bobby’s snuffling, Edward, with huge sympathy, says;

 

“Now just what on  _ Earth _ is this outburst for?”

 

Bobby lets out an undignified, mucus-thick sob, and Edward considers that what he’d said may not have been wholly tactful. He grimaces, makes a dash back for the kitchen, grabs Bobby a glass of water and tries again.

 

“Come on, we’ll get nowhere if you're blubbering. Drink, breathe, and then explain to me why you think you've got to choose between your friends.”

 

Bobby blows his nose, loudly, wetly, and does as he is told.

 

“You're asking me if I’m in love with them,” he says. “That's what you're asking, right?”

 

Edward nods.

 

“I guess… I guess I am. I mean, I guess I’m a little bit in love with  _ everyone _ , but I know its different with them. And I- I don't wanna lose either one of ‘em. I mean, you know what its like, right? In the movies. The guy falls in love with a girl and leaves his best friend in the dust ‘cause he can't have both.”

 

He turns to Edward, lifting his head, and Edward winces at the pitiful sight of red rimmed eyes and running nose and real, all-consuming worry.

 

“This isn't a movie, Robert,” he says. “It's not as if that's how it works in real life. Well, not all the time, at least.”

 

Bobby wipes his nose again. “Huh?”

 

“I think, before you do any more worrying, you should first tell them how you feel,” says Edward, “maybe gauge their reaction, see if how they feel matches up to how you do. Then,” he holds up a hand before Bobby can say anything. “ _ Then _ you can start thinking about how the three of you can make it work.”

 

Bobby scrunches his face up, still obviously confused, so Edward takes that as cue to press on.

 

“I’m not saying this’ll work out perfect, or that the three of you will all fall into each others arms, madly in love. But if it seems to you that maybe all  _ three _ of you feel about the same for each other, who’s to say you have to choose between?”

 

Bobby’s brows furrow together, thinking hard, trying to process what he’s being told.

 

“Robert,” says Edward. “You could choose  _ both _ of them, if -  _ if _ they both want it.”

 

Bobby’s eyes well up again, but he looks like he understands, and he makes it all the more clear when he suddenly throws his arms around Edward and hangs on tight. Edward takes a chance, and does something he’d ordinarily never do, and he reaches out of his own tight personal bubble to hug Bobby back, sliding thin arms around his back and chancing a reassuring pat.

 

“D’you mean that?” Bobby asks, voice muffled into Edward’s dressing gown. “Do you, I mean - do you think--?”

 

“I can't tell you how it'll go. I mean it, you know them far, far better than I do. But if I’m right, and if what you've told me is true, then I don't see why it  _ can't _ work out.”

 

“Just kinda seems weird, right? Nobody has a boyfriend  _ and _ a girlfriend.”

 

“Well,  _ that's _ just completely untrue.”

 

The hug’s now gone on for a little longer than Edward would honestly like, but he resists the urge to move his arms.

 

“How do  _ you _ know?” Bobby asks, still speaking into Edward's shoulder. Edward shrugs.

 

“Art school.”

 

\---

 

They try again with the bagels, but this time Edward spreads jam over Bobby’s half for him, to avoid another fiasco. Bobby’s calmer now. There's still a little hiccup to his breath, but Edward's not worried.

 

“So tell me again what it is you're going to do,” says Edward, taking a bite of his plain yoghurt bagel.

 

“I’m gonna talk to my friends.”

 

“And you're going to tell them…?”

 

“I’m gonna tell them I’ve got...feelings for ‘em.  _ Romantical _ ones.”

 

Edward lets the non-word slide. “And you're not going to…?”

 

“Jump to conclusions, wimp out, or cry.”

 

They both know he probably won't manage part three of that little list, but neither says it out loud. Edward leans back, looking reasonably satisfied.

 

“Then I’d say you're set.”

 

Bobby sighs. “Yeah, I thought so. Guess I’d better go then, see if they're up yet.”

 

“Sandra stayed with you last night?”

 

“Yeah, we all slept on the couch.”

 

Edward nods. “I’d say that's a good sign.”

 

Bobby’s mouth quirks in a half-smile and he swallows the last of his bagel half, brushing crumbs from his knees and hauling himself up off of Edward’s couch. Edward rises too, and walks Bobby to the door.

 

“Thanks for everything, Ed,” Bobby says, stopping short. He stretches his arms up and places both hands on Edward's shoulders, looking serious. “Where would I be without ya, huh? My oldest, wisest friend,” his expression turns a touch more whimsical. “The Gandalf to my Frodo. The Dumbledore to my Harry Potter. The handsome older gentleman to my goofy young protagonist.” He laughs at his own remarks. “For real. Thanks.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Edward prises Bobby’s hands off him. “I’m a hero to the nation,” he says, deadpan. “Now go on and get out of here, before you lose your nerve. And thank you, for the lackluster breakfast.”

 

Bobby laughs heartily again, nods, and then turns out the door and heads back for home.

 

\---

 

Pat and Sandy are awake when he gets back, and Sandy catches his eye as he enters, giggling at his crouched, sneaking posture, perched on tiptoe trying to stay silent with his wide-eyed, caught-out look.

 

“It’s okay Bobby, we’ve been awake since you left. Talk about slammin’ doors, I reckon you woke the entire complex!”

 

She's still on the couch, and so is Patrick, but it's clear at some point that one of them got up for coffee. They're no longer at opposite ends of the couch either - there's no gap between them, and Bobby’s eyes can't help but slide to where their knees touch together, Pat’s right to Sandy’s left.Still, as if they notice, they slide apart as Bobby shuts the apartment door and allow him to take his place in the space they make for him between them.

 

“Where'd you go?” Pat asks, stretching his arms out across the back of the sofa.

 

“Oh, I went to Edward's.”

 

“Did you take him the rest of that pie?”

 

Bobby slaps his forehead. “Aw nuts, I forgot! I knew there was  _ something _ .”

 

“Well if you weren't on a pie delivery, what had you over there?” Sandy asks, eyeing him over the rim of her mug of coffee. It's a thirft-store find, an old Disney mug with Mickey and Pluto on it, decked out in golf gear. It's the one she always chooses, when she's over, he's noticed. More than once after she's left he’s cleaned pink lipstick off the rim, but there's no lipstick this morning.

 

“Oh, I was just being neighbourly,” he says, in a tone faintly unconvincing. “You know me. World's friendliest wake-up call.”

 

Sandy snorts. “Now I know  _ that's _ true.”

 

They lapse into comfortable silence and the truth Bobby’s got filling him up from heart to throat itches to come out into the air, but suddenly here, surrounded by both of them he loses his nerve, because of  _ course _ he loses his nerve, because nothing’s easy, nothing important is ever easy.

 

“Guys,” he says, hands aching to hold theirs, and  _ damn, why’d they both have to be holding coffee.  _ “I gotta ask you somethin’.”

 

“Shoot,” says Patrick, taking a slurp from his own mug. (The green one with the pink starfish, a paint-your-own design from some artsy café they went to for Bobby’s tenth birthday.)

 

“Okay,” says Bobby, taking a deep breath. “It’s real important, so please don't freak out.”

 

“We aren't gonna, Bobby,” says Sandy, nudging him with her elbow.

 

“Okay.” he takes another breath, even deeper. “Okay. Here goes.”

 

He looks to Patrick, his best friend for as far back as he cares to remember, and he looks to Sandy, who he's known long enough and fiercely enough now to love just as much. He looks to them both and knows they're everything he could ever want, so he opens his mouth and he says;

  
  
  
  
  
  


“I… I had an idea for the last burger. So I wanted to ask -- I wanted to ask your favourites.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


Sandy looks confused for a second, clearly expecting a question more monumental from the build-up. She shrugs. “You mean like, how I take my usual, two pickles, no mayo?”

 

Pat nods. “Yeah, yeah, or me with everything on it.”

 

Bobby shakes his head. Half of him wants to scream and flee the scene, he's missed his chance and doesn't know when he'll get another. All that pep-talking from Edward and he'd chickened out like the coward he is, all that pep-talking and he'd just choked.

 

The other half of him thinks maybe he’s onto something.

 

“No, I don't mean like how you take your burgers when I make ‘em at the  _ Krab  _ ‘n’ I gotta stick to the script. I mean like… what flavours, how’d you like your patty meat. You want onions or somethin’ in there? Or what kinda seasoning? And bread - if you could have somethin’ that wasn't just the same old sesame bun -- what did you like when your parents had barbecues when you were a kid and all that, d’you -- d’you guys get what I’m saying?”

 

“...Kinda?” Patrick says. “I got it. You remember last year and we took that vacation outta town, and we found that diner with all the plastic lawn flamingoes?”

 

Bobby nods. “Uh-huh, go on…?”

 

“The patty was kinda oniony, kinda spicy, but not insane. Had a slice of cheese with jalapeños. But do you remember -- you had that little apricot jam from breakfast, so we improvised?”

 

Bobby nods. “I remember. So...that?”

 

Pat grins, and pats his belly, like burger consumption had happened just a moment ago. “Yep. That's the one.”

 

Bobby laughs. “I can't believe you remember that.”

 

“Dude, I think about it so often. If you weren't already doing this whole mystery menu thing, I’d probably have asked you to make it for my birthday.”

 

Another laugh. “Pat, I swear, if that's what you want, I’ll make you ten and put ‘em on a cake stand with candles.” Then he turns to his right. “Okay, San- _ day _ , what about you?”

 

Sandy’s eyes take on a faraway glance, thinking hard.

 

“Hm. You know, when I was a kid my papa had a specialty. None of us were vegetarian or nothin’, but he got real good at this meatfree patty he’d make usin’  _ acorns _ . And he’d make ‘em every time there was a community picnic, and everyone used’ta say us Scudieros were like a family of squirrels.”

 

Bobby’s eyebrows shoot up, threatening to disappear into his hair.

 

“ _ Acorns _ ?”

 

Sandy nods, giggling. “Yep, you heard me right. Wasn't  _ just _ acorns, he mixed ‘em with some other fake meat to make the patty, it was just for the extra kick.”

 

“And that was...good?”

 

“Well it sure could be, when my papa made it.”

 

“Oh,  _ I _ see. So this is a challenge, huh?”

 

“You  _ did _ ask me what my favourite was.”

 

Bobby considers this, thoughtfully, and then nods.

 

“Okay. Okay. I think I can make this work.” He reaches forward, sifting through the debris on the coffee table for pen and paper, and draws up a diagram. The others lean forward, peering over his shoulders to get a better look.

 

“Bobby,” says Sandy. “You know I think you're the best chef in this whole novelty town, but I really think that’s pushin’ it.”

 

“You just watch me, Miss Scudiero,” he replies, capping the pen and springing to his feet. “And prepare your stomach. We got a lot of experimenting to do.”

 

\---

 

Patrick’s jalapeño-apricot burger is easy enough to recreate, being that Bobby himself had eaten a slightly smaller half of that very same original burger. The patty only takes two tries to get right. Sandy’s is more difficult, and requires a trip out to the hippie grocery store on the far side of town. She’s fussier about the flavour, and Bobby’s with her on that -- so its four tries before they get to something juicy enough, tasty enough without using ground beef.

 

Neither of them had a bun preference, so Bobby opts for something plain and safe -- nobody’s going to need sesame seeds to distract them with  _ this _ particular special.

 

“So!” Bobby claps his hands together, and a little cloud of dust flies up from his hands. “Lady, gentleman, if you please.”

 

Pat and Sandy sit up straighter in their seats behind the counter.

 

“Before you you will see what appears to be,  _ yes _ , a normal burger. But if you rotate your plates slightly, uh, let’s say about forty-five degrees,” and he waves his hands, motioning for them to do so, “you will notice a seam in the patty, and realise that it is in fact two different halves of two different patties put together.”

 

Pat and Sandy make this observation and nod to each other, then to the chef.

 

“Because this is so special, I’m gonna instruct you on proper consumption technique. There are, of course, several ways to do it. You might be tempted to go for the side you know.” He motions to them to do so, and without further prompting, both Patrick and Sandy take a bite out of their respective favourites. There's nods and murmured approval all ‘round.

 

“Okay. And now, if you would be so kind, please rotate your burgers all the way go the opposite side, and then give that a try.”

 

The test subjects do so, and quietly remark on each other's impeccable sense of taste.

 

“Now, esteemed guests,” says the chef, twisting both plates so Patrick and Sandy are once again faced with the seam joining both halves together. “Now, I invite you to try both sides  _ together _ .”

 

\---

 

At a comfortable late lunchtime, with sea salt in each patty to help bridge the gap and blend together the flavours - and most importantly, to aid with the name - _the_ _split sea burger_ tops off the final item on Chef Porter’s specials week.

 

**END OF ACT 1.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> your comments and kudos are the fan that keeps alive the flame of my writing this. thanks for sticking with me!


	6. ACT 2, PART 1: the crispy barnacle burger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> and so we begin act 2! this one will be full of more #drama, but not this chapter. first, you have to bear with one more 'character has a conversation with bobby about his darlings' before i start injecting some turmoil. get ready.

 

_TODAY'S SPECIAL: A delicious beefburger in a sesame bun boat floats on your plate with mini-onion ring barnacles straight from the briny blue. Comes with lettuce, tomato, french fry oars and Captain Krabbe’s famous organic relish. Don’t forget to fold your paper pirate hat to go with the flag!_

 

\---

 

Bobby wakes up to a string of texts from Sandy. It reads,

 

 **S [sunflower emoji]:** good luck today!

 **S [sunflower emoji]:** you’ll be great. especially after that weird combo one last night. i don’t know how you do it cause i’d swear those would never go together?

 **S [sunflower emoji]:** anyway don’t worry about anything today! just do what you always do. sorry i can’t be there today but i’ll make it up to you i promise.

 **S [sunflower emoji:]** ok i gotta get to work. sell specials, be AMAZING, b. xxx

 

He lies there on his back in his own bed and thinks, first, how sweet it is that she’s sweet, that she left him that message and how sweet he is on her. Then he thinks about what he might have had, if he could only have just not swerved at the last second the night before. If he’d have taken both his friends’ hands and not just offered them a split sea, maybe if he could have bridged the gap. Sandy might have stayed again, and they might have all piled into his room instead of onto the couch, and might, and might, and maybe, maybe. He thinks about it as he drags himself out of bed, and he thinks about it as he gets dressed, and he thinks about it ‘til he’s fit to start crying when he goes to the kitchen and finds plates still stuck with crumbs in the sink.

 

 _At least they’d liked the burger,_ he thinks. _And if that could go together… then maybe I’ll get a second chance._

 

He does his best to heed what Sandy’s texts had said - _be great, sell specials -_ so he squashes down all the feelings he’s so terribly filled up with, and he gets himself ready to get going.

 

\---

 

True to his word given solemnly under the leopard-print roof of Fort B.F.F., Patrick agrees to help, and, being that there aren't any sailor hats going spare, he sacrifices his rockabilly ‘do and squashes his hair under a hairnet, lunchlady style. Much of Monday night had been spent making arrangements, gathering ingredients, taking them to the _Krab_ , stocking up, making lists, double checking them, and then making sure everything’s laid out ready for a bright and early morning. The boys arrive at the restaurant even brighter and earlier than Bobby would normally, though business itself gets started about as slowly as ever.

 

When Edward rolls in, characteristically wearily, he gives a meaningful look to Bobby. A raise of the eyebrows and pointed glance toward Patrick, who’s shimmying to something on the radio in the back. Bobby only shrugs weakly, his half-grimace saying it all. Edward’s look turns hard, just a touch disappointed-and/or-exasperated, and so he takes his place with a look that says _we are going to have a conversation about this_ , before ceasing further silent conversation, and sitting down behind the cashier’s counter, fingers immediately leafing through the newspaper he’d carried in under his arm. Mr Krabbe completes the company choreography and dances in and out of his office, asking the occasional customer how they're finding the service. The day gathers steam, and routine is easy to fall into.

 

In the kitchen, fryers sizzle, spatulas scrape across cooking surfaces, and everything’s going reasonably okay.

 

“How’s the barnacles comin’ along, First Mate Patrick?” Bobby asks over his shoulder.

 

Pat holds his fingers up, OK-hand-sign. “S’going _terrifically_ , Captain Bobbert,” he says, shuffling another bunch of tiny, shallot onion rings into the fryer. A further handful of them go in his mouth. “They’re lookin’ _real_ barnacley. Totally fit to stick to the side of a boat or something.”

 

“Awesome, awesome.” Bobby rises on tip-toe, peering through the service window. “Say, Second Mate Edward. Nobody’s… nobody’s put in an order for a special yet, have they?”

 

Edward doesn't bother to turn around from his newspaper. “No, Robert.”

 

“Hey hey, that’s ‘no, _Captain_ Robert.’”

 

“Don't let Eugene catch you calling yourself that, he’ll accuse you of starting a mutiny.”

 

Bobby snorts. “Yeah, guess that's a good call.” Then he sighs, ducking back down for a slice of tomato. “Well, in any case. _Order up_!” He slides the plate on through, and Edward begrudgingly hauls himself to his feet to deliver purchase to customer.

 

“Hey Ed,” Bobby calls after him. “You’ll tell me if someone does, right?”

 

Edward sighs, dumping the customer's tray before them. “ _No,_ Robert, I’m going to keep it from _you,_ the _cook_.”

 

Bobby laughs. “Thanks, Ed.” He ducks back into the kitchen, twiddling his thumbs for the next order.

 

“Did we get an order?” Pat asks, with yet another handful of mini onion rings already halfway to his mouth. “‘Cause these are going’ fast.”

 

“Pat, c’mon, give it a rest, will ya?”

 

“Don't worry, there's still plenty.” He waves his hand, his usual easy, no-worries way. “And I’m real pro at these now. Maybe Mister K should hire me for actual money.”

 

“That’d be nice,” Bobby says. “Specially since he’ll probably charge _me_ for this whole week if I don't have any cold hard cash to show for myself by the end.”

 

“I’ll sell my liver,” Patrick says. “Or like, half. They say it grows back.”

 

Bobby winces. “I dunno if that's totally true, buddy, but I appreciate the offer. I think.”

 

Pat shrugs, a _suit yourself_ gesture, and digs deep in his pockets for his phone. Bobby sighs and turns back to the grill, starting to feel too bummed out to tell Pat not to play _Seashell Smash_ while they’re working, and wondering if he might just make the special for himself and hope that’d count.

 

\---

 

Bobby puts two-and-two together and realises Pat hadn’t been playing the addictive mobile app game when, twenty minutes later, a group of overly-styled looking hipsters, each with meticulously trimmed facial hair show up and place orders for specials. Admittedly, they spend their entire time talking loudly about how _avant garde_ the little eatery is and wax lyrical about whether or not the pirate theme is truly _ironic_ or just plain sad. The important thing, however, is that they order, and they make such a show of it - even folding the paper pirate hats - that even a couple regulars branch out from their usuals.

 

Bobby half-hangs out of the service window, and Patrick squishes up around him, filling up the rest of the space. They squeeze each other's’ hands in stifled excitement right up until Mr K clocks them and waves them back into their back room.

 

“Thanks for organising a plant in the audience, Pat,” Bobby says, as they slide back into kitchen.

 

“Mm, I dunno what you're talking’ about. Never seen those dudes with the same sideburns as me in my entire life.”

 

Bobby laughs, and wipes at a blob of batter on the front of Patrick’s shirt. It takes a bit of work to get rid of. “Sure thing, pal. But seriously. Thanks.” and he pats Pat’s left pectoral, looking fondly up at his friend, who, stinking of onions in his hairnet and _kiss the cook_ apron, looks more like a hero to Bobby than ever, in spite of the cooking-oil highlight going on on his forehead. Maybe even because of it. It’s round two of Patrick coming to Bobby’s culinary rescue, and if Edward's suspicions were ever right about Bobby’s feelings for his best friend, they’d be certainly confirmed here and now.

 

He wants to say something, there’s something on the tip of his tongue, but it’s not going to be right with only two-thirds of the equation, so he doesn’t, and so it’s Pat that breaks the silence instead.

 

“You're welcome,” he says, and he returns the cleanup favour by flicking a loose crumb off Bobby’s shoulder.  “Even though nothing that just happened was my doing.”

 

\---

 

Pat takes a total of three breaks to go talk to the sideburns guys he definitely doesn't know. They stick around for hours, which _would_ drive Mr Krabbe nuts, except that they keep ordering, shooting to try almost the entire menu, which keeps Krabbe _very_ happy, and his fry cook _very_ busy.

 

By closing time, Bobby’s made a grand total of five _crispy barnacle burgers_ , which isn't awful, _per se_ , definitely better than nothing considering their usual customer flow, but it certainly isn't great either, when ratio of usuals to specials is taken into account. And he barely makes a dent in Patrick's _Mount Funyun 2: Electric Boogaloo_ , but given his partner-in-cooking for the day, it's not as if that's going to be difficult to get rid of. _They're just so teeny_ , Pat says, as he shovels handfuls of mini onion rings in his mouth between each wipe of sponge against cooking surface. _You can just eat and eat and eat ‘em, and they're gone just like that._

 

After kitchen cleanup, Pat announces that he’s going to go play an impromptu gig with the sideburns guys at his hipster cafe downtown, and confesses that he does, in fact, know them. Bobby feigns surprise, then betrayal, then laughs breezily, hugs Patrick goodbye, and waves him off.

 

\--

 

“So how’d you do, boy-o?” Krabbe asks, as Bobby finishes wiping the very last table in the seating area. Edward had long since disappeared, but Bobby’ll admit there's something he likes about the quiet of the place in the early evening at lock-up.

 

“Uh… pretty okay, Captain!” He says, making for the fairy-light covered chalkboard Pat had rigged up for him the night before. One swipe with the eraser later, and the specials board is blank once more. “I… didn't end up sellin’ as many specials as I’d’a _hoped_ , but…”

 

“How many was it, lad?” Krabbe asks, heading for the register.

 

“Five, sir.” Bobby answers, worry creasing his brow. “I know it’s not like a _ton_ or anything--”

 

“Ah, don't you be worryin’ about that, lad. You sold one.” He pops the register open, quick fingers already counting cash. “And a couple followed, and they’ll be sure to continue. I know it seems like I’m hard on ye, son, and I’ll admit I wasn't really expectin’ ye to sell nothin’, but all’s it is is making ye tough to the world.”

 

Bobby’s mouth twists -- there's just something about Mr Krabbe’s pep talks that lack quite the right _peppy_ ingredient. Still, despite Mr Krabbe’s making his doubt very clear, nonetheless he’d said it -- _it’ll be sure to keep going_ , Bobby’ll still get to do his specials, and with luck, he might even sell them too.

 

“Thanks, Mister K,” he says, as they two make for the exit, keys jangling against the hairy backs of Krabbe’s hands. “For givin’ me a chance, ‘n’ all. I know it's probably askin’ a lot.”

 

Krabbe shushes him, ushers him through the door, and then slides the key key the entrance into its slot, turning with a click.

 

“That's lock-up.” Krabbe chortles, slapping Bobby heartily on the back. “What’ll ye be doin’ with yourself for the rest of the night, lad?”

 

Bobby winces, stretching to try and pop his spine back into place. “Uh...nothin’ much, sir, I’ll probably just go home. There's a _telenovela_ me and Pat have been watching the past couple weeks and it's really getting good.”

 

Krabbe guffaws loudly again. “Sounds about right for the two of ye, lad. Old married couple by now, aren't ye?” Then he snaps to attention, giving Bobby a hard salute. “See you bright and early tomorrow morning, sponge-boy.”

 

Bobby salutes back. “Aye aye, Captain!”

 

Then Krabbe disappears in usual fashion, whistling some sea shanty as his red polished boots click against the sidewalk.

 

\---

 

Bobby’s old sneakers don't click so much as shuffle -- he’s dragging his feet, exhausted from the day, and wonders if it'd be terribly rude of him to maybe call Sandy and ask for a ride home. She had _said_ the offer was open any time, but if he thinks about it too much he gets caught up in a web of hypotheticals where she’s far too busy, and she gets angry at him even hinting, and maybe drives right down and slaps him, and maybe declares their almost-relationship over.

 

 _Yeesh_ , he thinks. _Better not_.

 

So instead he walks, like he does on the average day. It’s not so blazingly hot by five-thirty in the afternoon, so he zips up his hoodie and takes the scenic route, where he gets the view of the boardwalk even if he’s not intending to stop for funnel cake.

 

Halfway down, he spots a familiar, platform-heeled figure sitting on a bench with her _face_ in her hands, rather than her phone.

 

“Pearl…?” he asks, making cautious approach, hands raised like she's a terrified creature out in the wild. Her head lifts the second she hears her name and Bobby sees livid, makeup-smeared eyes and a grimacing mouth, an expression of furious irritation that dies as soon as she realises who it is. Then her expression goes apologetic, embarrassed, and she wipes futilely at her eyes with the backs of her hands.

 

“Oh, Bobby.” She says, her usually enormous voice tiny and mouse-like. “It’s you. Sorry, I- I thought it was Jerry. You- you sound kinda like him.”

 

“Well, I don't have to lassie,” he says, putting on his best Scottish accent, hoping to tease a smile out of his sobbing teenage sometimes-coworker, but the attempt falls flat, and she only gives him a blank, watery look.

 

“Sorry,” Bobby says, resuming his real accent. “Thought it was worth a shot. May I?” He gestures to the spot on the bench next to her, and she shrugs vaguely, so Bobby takes that as an OK. He sits himself down with a respectable amount of space between them, then blows out an exaggerated breath with a _whew_ sound.

 

“Boy. That Jerry, huh. What a Grade-A butthead.”

 

Pearl lets out a watery snort. “You don't even know him.”

 

Bobby folds his arms. “Hey, I don't have to. Any guy that makes a girl as awesome as you cry is totally the _worst_ .” He unfolds his arms, and holds up his fists. “Want me to beat him up? If he’s less than five foot five I can take him.Preferably _way_ less.”

 

Pearl snorts again, loud and mucusy, then scrambles frantically for a tissue. Bobby beats her to the punch, handing over his novelty _Aquaman_ Kleenex. Pearl accepts it with a grateful look, shaking a tissue out and blowing hard before she repsonds. “Do I look like the kinda girl who dates people under five foot five”?”

 

Bobby pouts. “Well jeez, no need to come after me like that. Us short guys aren't a bad choice, you know, we’re- we’re _pocket sized_. It’s very convenient.”

 

That earns a real giggle from Pearl, and Bobby feels the tension and anger of the situation start to ebb away. It’s quiet for a moment and while Bobby itches to ask what happened, he figures if he gives her time he might not need to. Sure enough, after a few moments of sitting next to her, politely looking away as she scrubs ruined makeup off her face with the rest of his tissues, Pearl speaks.

 

“He- he was cheating on me. I- I’d kinda suspected for a while, but like, I was totally trying to give him the benefit of the doubt, you know? Or like give him a second chance or whatever. He put on this whole big show, brought me flowers and started crying -- _god!_ I totally should have Rihanna’d him. _Take a bow_.”

 

Bobby’s only response to that is a blank look. Pearl looks affronted.

 

“What, you don't know that? Dude, that song is _so_ super old. Like, you were probably _my_ age when it came out.”

 

Bobby slowly shakes his head, and Pearl rolls her eyes.

 

“Whatever. _Anyway._ After all that I was like, _sure,_ okay, I’ll go out on a make-up date with you. But literally, _literally_ at the time I was supposed to meet him today, Shelley posted _this_.”

 

She thrusts her phone into Bobby’s hands, and there on the screen is an over-filtered, slightly blurry photo of a teenage couple furiously making out. Bobby blushes and hands the phone back quickly.

 

“And- and, well, you can see for _yourself_ what went down.” She pushes the phone back into his hands, swiping up with her index knuckle to display the comment section, filled with furious, barely understandable caps lock conversation. Bobby scans the angry text quickly, and picks up the gist - Jerry had blown Pearl off for Shelley, and Shelley had gone behind his back and posted their private picture just before Jerry had the chance to send an _‘im sick, sry, raincheck? :(‘_ to his actual girlfriend. From the state of the comments section, Pearl-and-Jerry might be over, but Shelley-and-Jerry looks like it might be on it's last legs too.

 

“And the worst part- the _worst_ part is that Shelley was supposed to be my best friend! What kind of best friend gets between a couple like that?”

 

Bobby gulps. _Yeah, what kind of best friend_ , he thinks, and he wonders again about Patrick and Sandy, and whether or not _he’s_ being a Shelley. “Uh, a bad one?”

 

Pearl snaps her fingers. “Damn right. A really freakin’ _terrible_ one, _god_ ! I don't even know what to do. I've been sitting here crying like a total _idiot_ ever since.” She sobs loudly, wiping at her eyes again. “You’re- you're actually the first person to even stop and see if I was okay in like _three hours_ , Bobby.”

 

Bobby winces, and tries his best not to let his nature as a sympathetic crier get the best of him. “Aw jeez, Pearl, m’really sorry. Neither of them are worth your time, they- they sound like they're way too wrapped up in themselves. I- I think, even though it _sucks_ , you- you might be better off without them.”

 

Pearl grimaces, blowing her nose hard again. “I guess so.”

 

They sit in semi-awkward silence for a while, until Pearl speaks again.

 

“I’m sorry for blowing you off today, Bobby,” she says, still wiping her nose. “I guess like, karma came for me or whatever. _Ugh_.” She sighs, and turns to him properly. “I’m the worst, you can say it.”

 

“I would _never,_ ” Bobby says, leaning forward, earnest. “You are _super_ not the worst, Pearl. You were trying to give someone you cared about a second chance, that's the opposite of the worst. That's so forgiving and-- even if-- well, even if he didn't deserve even a _little_ bit of your kindness.”

 

Pearl smiles, just a little. “God, my daddy’s right, you’re _way_ too nice for your own good.”

 

Bobby shrugs. “Well, they say the world is full of nice people. And if you can't _find_ one? _Be_ one.” He folds his arms again, looking pleased. “At least, that's what my pops always says.”

 

Pearl’s smile turns a touch wistful. “Of course he does.” She sighs. “I… I guess I should get home. Daddy will-- he’ll probably be wondering how much money I spent today, or whatever.”

 

Bobby winces. He knows Mr Krabbe’s tight with cash when it comes to his employees, but he kind of hates to think that Krabbe’s also that stiff with his own _daughter_ . She slowly rises to her feet, and Bobby springs up too. Pearl’s taller than him anyway, but in those shoes, _wow_. He really has to tilt his chin up.

 

“I’ll walk you home, if you like?” He says, offering her his arm the way gentleman do in old black-and-white movies, the kind where they put their coats in puddles so ladies don’t mess up their shoes. He’s always liked the idea of being charming like that, in that old black-and-white glow.

 

Pearl’s smile grows, and she takes his arm at the elbow. “Yeah, I’d… I’d really like that. Thanks.”

 

\---

 

They spend the walk home talking about their long history of high-school crushes. Pearl divulges a long string of crushes right the way from elementary school to present day, right the way up to Jerry The Jerkoff. Of course, she’s got a few minor crushes on the back burner, so it’s not as if she won't be able to find a date for prom when graduation rolls around in a few months.

 

Bobby, in exchange, talks about a few of his own high school crushes, but eventually just ends up talking about Pat and Sandy.

 

“Yeah, I guess I just figured you were dating Patrick this whole time. I totally assumed you were gay.” She says, breezily. “But then I thought I saw _serious_ sparks between you and Miss Science, so I was like, huh, guess he’s not gay! Unless…” she turns to him, shoulders wiggling in that _yes-or-no_ way. “...unless you...are?”

 

Bobby shrugs. “Nah, I guess not. I mean, I’ve never really _thought_ about it too hard, guess I just... like who I like. I think I was just lucky. Whenever I’d talk about who I liked as a kid, my parents weren't ever like _better be marrying a lady, son_ , or anything like that.”

 

“Mmm. So what are you gonna do, like, date them both?”

 

“ _Yeaaaah_ , apparently that's like… an actual thing, sometimes? Maybe? I don't really know much about it, though, just a little crash-course I got yesterday from Edward, if you can believe it.”

 

Pearl stops in her tracks, turning to face him, both hands hugging his arm excitedly. “You should look it up online! It’s called being _polyromantic_ or something like that. It’s not...it’s not _cheating_ , like the Jerry The Jerkoff or anything, its all about, like, trust and love and junk. Oh my god!” She squeezes his arm a little tighter. “You guys would be perfect together! Have you talked to them about it?”

 

“I’m...working up to it!” Bobby squeaks, fingers starting to tingle from lack of blood flow.

 

“Okay,” says Pearl, loosening her grip and pulling him along again. “But you better not chicken out. You're just so sweet, _ugh!_ I wanna see this happen for you.”

 

“Yeah, I kinda want it to happen _too_ .” Bobby hurries to keep in step with Pearl, for every one stride of hers is two of his. “I’m just- it’s just _scary_ ! I don't- I don't wanna… I don't wanna ruin everything with _both_ of them.” He wilts a little. “They're kinda my best friends in the world and all.”

 

Pearl holds a mock-offended hand to her chest. “What does that make me?”

 

Bobby scrambles. “The- the- the best part-time co-worker and cat gif texting buddy I’ve ever had!”

 

Pearl laughs, a loud, proper one, and the sound of it eases all of Bobby’s worry away.

 

“Aw, you really are the nicest person ever. It’s _super_ specific, but I’ll take it. Anyway… this is me.”

 

Bobby looks past her and sure enough, they're at the Krabbe family residence, standing on the porch and Bobby’s still got her arm looped through his. He’s not walked a lot of girls home, he can count that on three fingers - and two of them are Pearl. He feels strangely like he ought to have brought her flowers.

 

“Looks like it is. Well, Miss Pearl, I sure hope you feel better soon. And if you _don't_ find anyone to take to prom, I _am_ still the height of most freshmen. You know, if you overlook your short guys rule.”

 

Pearl laughs again, loud and almost teary and beautiful. “Aw, if you were still in high school, we’d totally be going steady. I’d have snapped you up like _that_ , even though you’re so tiny.” She slips her phone into her pocket, then leans right down, bent at the knee and kisses him, quick, on the cheek. “Thanks for being the sweetest.”

 

“Aw, no worries.” Bobby says, flushing scarlet, and she throws her arms around him quickly, a hug that catches him off guard, all the more so when she pulls away and he catches a glimmer of tears in her eyes yet again before she opens the door and disappears inside. They exchange goodbyes, and then the door clicks shut.

 

Bobby takes yet another scenic route home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whew! pearl WILL be showing up again. thanks for sticking with me!


	7. ACT 2, PART 2: the pineapple party burger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> sometimes all you can do is share what you love, and hope it'll do the rest.

 

_TODAY'S SPECIAL: Have a real party with wednesday’s special - a pork teriyaki burger with cheese, bacon, lettuce, and of course, a sweet pineapple ring! Goes great with an order of crispy fries -- and goes great if you throw in an order for your friends too!_

 

_\---_

 

Patrick ditches his hipster friends early-ish, and gets back to the apartment to find Bobby still making final arrangements for day two of his specials week. There's a stab of guilt that goes right through him, because, after all, he did bail on Bobby for an evening of jazz and def poetry. He hopes the then bailing on open mic night might make up for his earlier bailing - it’s just nonstop bailing for Patrick, but when his _‘hey why dont u come down here its gettin awesome’_ text has been answered with a _‘sorry buddy i still got prep to do :0 see u in the morning???’,_ he’d all but thrown his trombone out the window in order to get home fast enough.

 

So he and Bobby pack all the canned pineapples they can into the trunk of Pat’s car, and then settle in to watch their _telenovela_ ‘til they fall asleep. _That_ had all begun the one day that Bobby woke too sick to haul himself out of bed, so Pat had hauled the TV into Bobby’s room so they’d have a bigger screen than Bobby’s laptop, and they’d settled on the first thing that wasn't the news.

 

Pat was the one sick the next morning, so they’d spent a total of two days cuddled up together under Bobby’s tacky floral covers, putting high school Spanish lessons to good use. And if Patrick could pick his ideal kind of day, it’d definitely be that, at least without all of the mucus.

 

So he at least gets to have an ideal night. These days they just settle for the little laptop screen, but it's the same floral covers. Bobby cranks the volume and settles into the crook of Patrick’s arm, and they fill each other in on the couple of hours they spent apart. Pat waxes lyrical about the improvised nature of jazz, and Bobby talks about Pearl and teenhood and high school crushes. Pat doesn't honestly remember most of Bobby’s crushes too well -- it always seemed to him like there was a new one every week. There's a point where Bobby seems to be steering the conversation toward _current_ crushes, but then goes very still and hurriedly diverts the conversation to what's happening on screen.

 

Pat’s heart starts thumping madly at the thought of _current crushes_ and once again he thinks of Bobby, and of Sandy, and of Bobby-and-Sandy, and he wonders if he ought to tell Bobby how he’s been feeling.

 

 _Yeah, and ruin telenovela night_ ? he thinks. _No way, Starr, keep your trap shut_.

 

\---

 

Traps shut, they fall asleep after about four episodes, and wake the next morning to the blaring alarm Bobby’s set for them. _Buenos d_ _ía_ _s,_ Bobby says, through the nose, pronunciation whiter than a slice of bread.

 

“Yeah, yeah, boo-whey-nos dee-as to you too.” Patrick says, making no move to get up. Bobby laughs, short and loud, and starts shaking Pat’s shoulder, not letting up ‘til he stirs. Patrick grumbles, attempting to cling both to sleep _and_ to Bobby, his big arms wrapped right ‘round Bobby’s middle -- but the chef can't be kept from his work, so Bobby wins out and Patrick, groaning the whole time, allows himself to be bullied, prodded, and then finally shunted out of bed. They get ready in a bleary, only-half awake haze, and crowd each other for the sink, splitting to get dressed, elbowing each other endlessly back in the kitchen trying to pull a decent breakfast together.

 

“Fruit salad?” Bobby says, contemplating the cans they couldn't fit into the car. Pat’s already juggling apples and pears, so Bobby takes that as a yes.

 

“Sandy not coming over today?” Pat asks, around a mouthful of apple. It isn’t as if she comes for breakfast on the regular, but weirdly, Pat feels like she ought to be here. Like there’s a pattern they’re just starting to fit to, and she’s not even co-operating with that. Bobby shakes his head.

 

“Nope. At least, she didn’t say anythin’, and I figure if she was gonna show, she’d have been here by now.” He takes the unbitten apple and the pears from Pat’s big hands, and within moments he’s prepped them an inoffensive, almost healthy breakfast. Emphasis on _almost_ \-- because Pat insists on tons of strawberry syrup.

 

\---

 

The drive to the _Krab_ is short and largely uneventful. The radio won’t tune into the good station, so they’re stuck listening to top 40, which Pat doesn’t love, but Bobby lives for irritating, repetitive pop, and he just _beams_ when he’s singing along, so Patrick can’t possibly begrudge him for it. They both end up with different, equally autotuned songs in their heads, and so make a mash-up of them as they unload Pat’s car, screeching ‘harmonies’ over one another and generally causing an early-morning ruckus. If anyone around’s still sleeping -- well, they aren’t anymore. It’s very nearly the start to a good day, except that halfway through a passionate air-guitar solo by Patrick, Krabbe storms in, earlier than usual and angrier than Pat’s ever seen, though admittedly he’s only ever really interacted with the restaurant owner on a casual-aquaintance basis.

 

“Boy!” He barks, and both boys freeze. Bobby winces, his hand clamped over Patrick’s mouth.

 

“Yes Sir?”

 

Krabbe’s eyes narrow to puffy slits. “Why aren’t ye up and running? The shutters aren’t raised, open sign’s not even on, do I have to do _everythin’_ around here? What am I paying you for?”

 

Bobby’s about to open his mouth and point out that it’s still forty-five minutes ‘til opening time, but Patrick widens his eyes, furrows his brows and Bobby takes the hint, clearly thinks better of it. Slowly, moving cautious, he lowers his hand and sinks down from-tip toe, and Patrick tries very, very hard not to think too much about the feeling of Bobby’s fingertips slipping away from his lips. Pat exhales slowly, blowing the breath out with an airy _whoosh_ , and he hovers next to Bobby, watching Krabbe circle the diner floor, roughly shoving up shutters and muttering about _lazy, good-for-nothing employees, don’t they know I’ve got a business to run here_.

 

Pat allows his focus to slip from the angry manager to his friend, stood looking still and nervous.

 

“Hey,” he whispers. “Is he...okay?”

 

Bobby doesn’t turn his head, but he leans over a little, more towards Pat. “I… I don’t know. I haven’t seen him like this in a _while_ , not since he thought we’d been robbed and it turned out Eddy’d accepted a monopoly money ‘stead’a real cash.”

 

Both boys jump as Krabbe kicks a chair into its home underneath a table on the far side of the room. Then, before they can get to speculating on just what’s caused this foul mood, Krabbe rounds on them and barrels in their direction, steam practically pouring from his nostrils, unsuppressed irritation on his red, red face. He knocks the very chairs he’d been shoving into their place as he goes, and Patrick might find it _funny_ , if he didn’t happen to give Bobby a sideways glance and see his friend’s worried expression.

 

(Before he knows it, he’s taken a micro-step forwards, inching just a fraction in front of Bobby. Fraction’s all it takes, really.)

 

“What’s all this _lollygaggin’_ , eh?” Krabbe bellows. “What’s got you lads just standing around? In the kitchen with ye before I _fire_ both your lazy behinds!”

 

Pat stays silent, and looks to Bobby for his cue. Half of him feels like they’re kids again and that he ought to puff out his chest, make himself look bigger even than he already is and stand up with his brawn -- the other half thinks that’d be a mistake. Krabbe’s not a playground bully but Bobby’s boss, and though Patrick’s opinion of him’s already rolling into the red, he figures if he starts a fight, then Krabbe really _might_ fire them.

 

Which would really suck, especially since Patrick hasn’t even technically been _hired_ yet.

 

Bobby just wilts under the pressure, grabs Pat by the elbow and hurries him back into the back, shushing him before he can even think about saying something. Pat allows himself to _be_ hurried, shuffling back and doing as is needed -- if he’d put up any resistance at all there’s not a chance Bobby could have budged him.

 

“Does he do that a lot?” Patrick asks as Bobby shuts the door behind them and presses his back flush to the wood surface, hand still clenched ‘round the door handle. Bobby shakes his head.

 

“N-no, he doesn’t usually _freak_ like that. I mean, he gets mad sometimes if I’m goofin’ off but he doesn’t usually start knockin’ over chairs. I- _jeez_ , I hope he’s okay.”

 

Pat splutters. “You hope _he’s_ okay? It looked like you were gonna faint out there, man.”

 

Bobby sighs. “Well, sure it was kinda scary ‘n’ all, but I figure there’s gotta be a reason he was so angry. Maybe somethin’ happened at home. Maybe somethin’ happened to _Pearl_ \--”

 

He’s already got his phone out, thumbs tapping out a frantic text. Patrick sighs, and makes his way over, slipping an arm around Bobby’s shoulders, propelling him away from the door. His eyes slide down to the bright rectangle of Bobby’s phone, and though it’s not really polite, he can’t help reading over his friend’s shoulder.

 

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** hey pearl your dad just came into work and hes really REALLY angry

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** idk whats going on but i just wanted 2 make sure everythings ok at home

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** are u ok???

 

its barely a moment before he gets a response, and Pat watches it blip in, feeling Bobby’s tense shoulders only get tenser as the three little dots give way to her message.

 

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** yeah hes fine dont worry about it x

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** is he throwing a tantrum? god im srry x

 

Bobby makes a noise, a high pitched, through-the-nose sound of distress, fear, confusion, frustration? Maybe all four. Pat rubs Bobby’s shoulder, but he doesn’t say anything.

 

 **bobby [frying pan emoji]:** u didnt answer my question, are you ok???

 

Bobby tips his head back, worried eyes lifting to meet Patrick’s. Pat’s mouth twists.

 

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** yeah im fine! dont worry about daddy if he shouts just ignore him x

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** trust me hes just full of hot air x

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** maybe just… keep ur head down tho x

 **pearl [shell emoji]:** but text me if he gets really bad with u, ok? X

 

Bobby sighs, sends an _okay_ , a string of various positive emoji, and then he locks his phone and slips it in his pocket. He steps out of Pat’s half-hug, (and doesn’t _that_ instantly feel ten degrees colder. Pat pulls his arm back against himself and tries not to think about it.) Bobby tiptoes over to the service window, leaning up to see whether or not Krabbe’s still out there fuming. He isn’t, and Bobby finally relaxes -- at least in frame, not so much in face. Pat studies the worried crease in Bobby’s brow with one mirroring it on his own. It’s quiet for a moment, and Patrick thinks he ought to say something, find something peppy to say. Bobby doesn’t look right frowning, and Pat can see this weird new sadder Bobby showing his face again, the Bobby that worries about what he’s doing without someone to tell him every day that he’s doing okay. And for the millionth time Pat feels this cold nagging notion, wondering just why it even is that Bobby suddenly wants more than the same old dream he’d had every day and why this wanting seems to be hurting him so much. It should be easy, right?

 

“C’mon,” he says, hands finding one of their cans of pineapples. He tosses it up, catches it. “Sooner we get started, sooner we can forget about Mister K. How’s about a special? I could call the guys again?”

 

Bobby just shakes his head, still looking deflated. “Nah, that’s okay.” He takes a big, deep, deep breath, and when he turns back to Patrick his smile’s there. Brittle, maybe not quite real yet, but there. “I got a feeling the regulars won’t let us down today.”

 

\---

 

What sucks more than anything about Bobby’s optimistic attitude is that it tends to make its strongest appearances when things are going the total opposite of the way he clearly wants them to. So, obviously, he’s humming a cheerful tune and the grill is sizzling away and no-one has placed any special orders. Not that many usuals either. And he hasn't _said_ anything out loud about it, but Pat knows this _particular_ tune’s reserved for really, really bad days -- and _gosh_ but his fingers just _itch_ to call in another favour from his jazz band friends because the barren landscape that’s the _Krab’s_ diner floor is making even Patrick want to start singing corny show tunes in an act of emotional defiance. And of course, the fact that Krabbe’s out there patrolling like some kind of cartoon shark, weaving in and out of tables and gruffly asking the few patrons out there if they want more ketchup -- that’s definitely not helping business any. Pat watches the third terrified looking customer accept a hefty handful of condiments before he sets down his tomato-slicing knife and sighs, a silent _whoosh_ , hoping not to attract Bobby’s attention. Fortunately, Bobby doesn’t look up.

 

Pat’s phone feels like an awfully heavy weight in his pocket, and he thinks back, scrolling mentally through his contact list for another shot at staging an order for a special. It can’t be the guys from jazz, but he figures he could have called his bowling alley pals, or the car wash girls -- Bobby would never know; none of _those_ friends have sideburns to give them away. And Bobby had been grateful for it yesterday, but he _had_ said he didn’t want it today. And Pat’s got a reputation for not being the brightest around, but he’s got enough sense - plenty, in fact - to know he shouldn’t just go around disregarding his friend’s wishes. Even _if_ it’d help.

 

Of course, that easy way out just gets more and more tempting as the afternoon drags on and Bobby does nothing but fry up regular ol’ burgers and run through the entirety of _the wizard of oz,_ _guys and dolls_ and _singin’ in the rain._ By four, Patrick’s singing along, but by five, they’re both quiet. Suddenly it’s near to closing time and the silence shatters as Krabbe all but breaks the door into the kitchen down. For the past few hours he’s been in his office, and both boys had hoped he’d cooled off in there.

 

No such luck.

 

“You two,” he barks. “I’m leaving. Lock up.” He throws the keys to Bobby, who fumbles, but manages to grab them before they hit the ground. Then he huffs away, and Patrick’s about to speak up when he and Bobby hear Edward’s voice outside. They exchange looks, both having assumed Edward would have already left -- but no, when they lean up toward the service window, staying low to keep out of sight, it’s clear he’s stuck around in the same state of uneasiness that they’d been in all day.

 

“...wait, hold on, Eugene, this is ridiculous. You’ve been acting like an impudent _child_ all day. You can’t _still_ be sulking.”

 

“Oh, I think I _can_ , Mister Edward. S’my establishment, after all. I can act however I damn well choose!”

 

Edward makes a displeased noise, a sour _hmph_ . “Yes, and I suppose you’ll agree then that that _definitely_ makes for a good business day.” A beat. “Note my sarcasm, Eugene. That wasn’t right.”

 

Krabbe says nothing, and back in the kitchen Pat and Bobby can only shrug at each other in agreement. _Fair enough, fair enough_.

 

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong or _not_ ?” Edward presses on, but he’s met with more silence. “I can’t _help_ if you don’t tell me. I just don’t think it’s fair to go around terrifying Robert and Patrick, nevermind how you treated the customers today.”

 

“How I _treat_ people is _my_ business!” Krabbe roars, “Everybody’s business is their own. I’ve learned that by now and--” and then there’s the unmistakeable sound of his bright pointy shoes hurrying out of the building. There’s an exasperated grumble from Edward, and then the sound of more footsteps dashing after him. The door to the restaurant slams twice, then Pat and Bobby pop their heads up from the service window and squint out into the fading light to see Edward stop Krabbe just outside, his hands on Krabbe’s shoulders, a white-knuckled grip that’s unmistakeable even from a distance.

 

“What do you suppose they’re sayin’?” Bobby asks, quiet, as he watches Edward talk down seriously to Krabbe. Krabbe doesn’t look like he’s having it though, and after a moment of two of glaring down at the ground, Krabbe shoves Edward’s hands away. Edward clenches his fists one more time, then quickly follows on Krabbe’s heels as the restauranteur storms away, finally out of view to the eavesdroppers in the kitchen.

 

“Guess we’ll never know.” Pat says. He turns to look down at Bobby, who’s clutching his spatula with wide, worried eyes. “Hey, you okay?” Pat asks, nudging him gently.

 

“Huh? Oh, yeah, sure.” Then he sighs. “I...guess we better clean up, then. It’s not really closing time yet, but I…” he trails off, eyes wandering to the light-rigged specials board nobody paid any attention to.

 

“I guess nobody else is comin’ today. C’mon.” And in that moment, he looks sadder than Pat’s ever seen him. Not the kind of blubbering, exaggerated sad he gets when they watch truly tragic telenovelas together, but a broken, beat-down sad that all the show tunes in the world couldn’t keep at bay. He sets down the spatula and reaches for a cleaning cloth, but before his hand can hit its mark Pat’s got his hand around Bobby’s wrist.

 

“Wait a sec,” Pat says, seriously. “I’m...I’m hungry.”

 

Bobby’s brows furrow together. “Dude, c’mon.”

 

“No, no. Wait here.”

 

Patrick drops Bobby’s hand and sidesteps past him, ditching the kitchen so he can get ‘round to the front desk. He leans forward and dings the order bell.

 

“Hey, I’d like to order the special today please?” He says. Bobby fixes him with a blank look.

  
“What are you doin’, Pat?”

 

“I’m placing an order, kind of want to get it soon. Like, before my stomach devours itself.” Pat replies seriously, hand already in his pocket for his wallet. He gets back up on tip-toe and rings the order up himself, working upside-down with great finesse before plopping the crumpled dollar bills into the register. Then he looks back up at Bobby, who still looks blank, brows still just slightly pinched together.

 

“Uh-- I don’t want it to go, neither, I’m eating it here. Says -- says it’s better to share your order with friends, too, right? So I put in enough money for a double order, n’ I want it pretty soon.”

 

Bobby sighs.

 

“C’mon, Bobby. Please?”

 

Bobby rolls his eyes.

 

“Okay. Okay, but you gotta come in here and help.” He sighs wearily, dragging a hand over his face -- but when his fingers slip away from his face Pat’s sure his look, tired though it is, still looks a little fond. (He hopes it's that, and not wishful thinking at least.) “Can’t make this without my partner, right?” He brandishes his spatula, puts on his pirate voice. “Back in the kitchen with you, number one.”

 

\---

 

Pat would never, _ever_ say it out loud, but he doesn't really _love_ pineapple, and doesn't quite get what Bobby’s so keen on them for. Far as fruits go, they’re fine, but Pat prefers his not to try and burn his tongue away. And he’s not a fussy eater by any stretch of the imagination, but he certainly wouldn't _choose_ Hawaiian if he happened to be ordering a pizza. Not to say he wouldn't eat it if it were around, it just wouldn't be his choice.

 

But whatever his own feelings may be, what he does know is that Bobby loves them. Loves the taste, loves the abundance of things you can find with them printed on in the summer -- heck, Patrick's pretty sure that, were it possible, Bobby would probably quite happily _live_ in one. And if the closest he can get is putting it on burgers, then Patrick can only agree to be there along for the ride.

 

Bobby grills in silence as Pat slices greens, then cheese. Pat’s not sure how to read that silence, and more unsure still about whether to break it when he reaches a point where he’s just chopping stuff for the sake of chopping. He eats half of what he’s chopped when Bobby turns around with burgers and buns and beckons with a wave of the hand for Patrick to come help him assemble.

 

Bun, then salad, burger, then cheese. Patrick remembers Porter family barbecues and tossing mismatching ingredients haphazardly on top of each other, his best friend leaning up over his shoulder, looking equal parts exasperated and something else, softer and brighter that Pat’s never _not_ seen in Bobby’s eyes. And he’s never had a Porter’s flair for culinary _presentation_ , but Patrick does his best to make sure nothing’s spilling over the edges. Then it’s bacon on top of what he’s got, then Bobby steps back entirely as Patrick places the pineapple ring on each one, nudging the slice of bright yellow fruit into optimum position before winding up with a bun in each hand, miming an explosion with a splutter as he places the final finishing touch. His fingertips come away from each completed burger with sesame seeds still sticking to them, and when he turns to Patrick once again, there’s a shade of pride to his look.

 

They can’t build fort B.F.F. inside the kitchen, but they sit on the floor with their backs to the pantry doors with plates on their knees and Pat fills up the quiet by talking, because Bobby isn’t, which is strange. Bobby’s the talker, and Pat usually doesn’t care if they don’t say anything at all -- it’s true, even being stone cold _bored_ together, sitting doing nothing’s still them sitting doing nothing _together_ , which is just about the happiest Patrick ever is.

 

But he talks. Words spill out him and he feels like if he doesn’t, he might do something momentous, something stupidly important. He talks about the burger, about how he actually figures it could do a lot better if it was stuffed with _flamin’ hot freeto puffs_ , how it’s good without but nothing’s ever _not_ improved by spicy corn snacks. He talks about spicy corn snacks and _hey, remember that time we drove two towns over for those limited edition ones?_ He talks about driving and all the places they still have to drive to, truck stops to try greasy food at and the greasy food he’s finished with, licking sauce from his fingers when he realises Bobby’s only halfway done.

 

Bobby’s only halfway done, burger halfway to his mouth, with a blob of sauce halfway across his lip. Patrick feels momentous, does something stupidly important. Before he has time to think or think himself out of doing, he surges forward and his hands are on Bobby’s face and his mouth is on Bobby’s mouth. He kisses quick, not allowing himself to feel if Bobby will kiss him _back_ , but not fast enough that he can’t taste that blob of sauce before he withdraws. Draws back just ever so slightly, his brow pressed to Bobby’s, eyes screwed shut tight.

 

Then neither of them move. Not for a while, not for a long while. Only when they start to cramp from being crowded so closely together, when Bobby realises he’s squished his burger into such a state that juice and sauce has rolled down his arm right to the elbow. They pull apart, blinking eyes open in the fluorescent kitchen lighting, and Patrick holds his breath. He peers down into Bobby’s eyes, worried about what he might find there. Shock, confusion, rejection? He’s not sure he can make it out. But Bobby’s brows aren’t pinched together anymore, face free from stressed-out creases, no frown to his mouth.

 

“So…” Patrick says, when he can’t stand it any longer. “Did I- did I get it wrong? Because--”

 

Bobby shakes his head quickly, and just about remembers to drop his squished-up burger back onto his plate before he throws his arms around Patrick’s wide, bulky body, burying his face in Pat’s shoulder for the briefest moment before he remembers himself, remembers to return what he’s been given. Their lips meet again, this time just for a little bit longer, both parties just as enthusiastic before Bobby pulls away and throw himself back into Patrick’s arms.

 

“No way, Pat. You could never get it wrong.” Then, after a moment. “Sorry. I think I got sauce all over your shirt.”

 

Patrick snorts. “Sauce, pineapple juice. Just another day.” He laughs again, and tilts his head closer. “You and your pineapples.”

 

Bobby shrugs. “What? They’re my favourite. Just wanna… share what I love, is all.” He lifts his eyes again, meeting Patricks. “ _With_ someone I love, is all. You know?”

 

Patrick nods. “Yeah. I sure do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. i know i promised things were going to get dramatic, and they ARE, but this needed to happen first. woohoo! 7 chapters in and we're finally getting to some KISSING. anyway. thanks for sticking with me!


	8. ACT 2, PART 3: the pretty princess burger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BAM, STILL GETTING IT UPLOADED BEFORE THE END OF THE MONTH. sorry if this one seems a bit rushed: that's because it is. i've had a lot of work to do with uni -- and i finally got to see the musical! for real! in the flesh! flew all the way to the states for thanksgiving, and was VERY thankful to also get to go see the wonderful show upon which this steaming pile of affection is based.
> 
> ok. here we go. pearl's in this one.

 

_TODAY'S SPECIAL: A patty fit for a princess, no matter age, size or gender. Enjoy the magical union of sugary sweet deliciousness in our seashell bun, with our turkey burger and royal dressing and pearl of melted American cheese._

 

\---

 

 _You work too hard_ , that’s what her father says. Her mother says it too. Even her brother -- but he doesn’t always phrase it the same way. Still, when she tells him _no, I can’t come home for this, or that, or the other_ , the disappointment in his voice, or on his face, over every call? That makes her feel just as bad.

 

 _It’s just I’ve got so much work to do here,_ she’ll say. _It’s just I can’t get away. I’ve got this project, that project, another project._ She tells herself and tells herself it’s true, but even though her heart aches to go home, to just say _yes_ for once, there’s something that holds her back from doing so. It’s a problem that worries her the more she thinks about it, and she’s thinking about it more and more. Try as she might, she can’t put her finger on the root of the problem, and all it does is cause more problems. Suddenly this, that, and the other project seem more and more like nonsense, and she finds herself almost at her wit’s end after a full two days cooped up in her house trying to make head or tails (or any other body part) of the piles and piles of research she’s gathered. Nothing comes together as anything useful, and every email from her supervisors and professors fills her with yet more dread.

 

“I feel like I’m going crazy right now,” Sandy says, out loud, to no-one in particular. “I gotta get out of this house.”

 

\---

 

So she gets out of the house. She stops first to take a shower, to change into something she’s not been wearing for the past 48 hours, combs through her hair to make sure it’s not squished flat on the side she’d fallen asleep at her desk on, and goes for powder blue eyeshadow instead of her usual lilac, just because. Then she hops into her weatherman’s van and makes for the place it’s second nature to head for. Thought turns to action and action gets her to where she wants to be, halfway to the door to the apartment with the pineapple knocker. Her fingers are just reaching for it when she hears another door open and sees a familiar tall, slim figure headed to check his mail.

 

“Edward!” She says, brightly. He clocks her, raising his eyebrows in greeting.

 

“Sandra.” He says, diverting off his path to meet her halfway. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a few days.”

 

“Oh yeah, work’s really had me snowed under. Reckon I was goin’ a little stir crazy on my own, so I thought I’d…” she waves a hand toward the door to the Starr-Porter residence.

 

“Drop in on the lovebirds?” Edward offers. Sandy snorts.

 

“Yeah, that. You know if they’re still in?”

 

Edward nods. “I believe so. I think, were they up already, the entire complex would know.” Then he shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter how much I ask or _how_ I do it, nothing is ever going to convince Robert not to deafen everyone with the garbled noise he calls music every morning. And since I haven’t heard it yet - which is surprising - I’d wager they aren’t even awake yet.” Then he steps around Sandy. “Anyway. I’ve got to go collect my mail before the nosy doorman gets to it. Good morning, Sandra.”

 

She lets him go and turns back to Patrick and Bobby’s door, but the view through the window happens to catch her eye. Their curtains aren’t quite fully drawn, and she can see the couch. The couch, that all-important island in the centre of their home, the central hub for hugs and movies and, as it is now, for Bobby and Patrick to be asleep curled up together, wrapped up in blankets _and_ all ‘round each other, a bright blue glow from the still-on TV shining on their faces in the curtain-drawn dimness of the room.

 

Her key, then, instead of the door-knocker. She’s got to wake them anyway, but she figures it’d be sweeter to do with over-sugared coffee than rudely by banging. So she slips in, sneaking quiet and shutting the door behind her with only the quietest click and makes for the kitchenette with the kind of ninja-like stealth that makes her so good at getting the jump on Bobby when he comes over for karate practice. _At least today I’m using my powers for good_ , she thinks, as she hunts out mugs and other coffee-making essentials, and by the time the coffee maker’s gotten to the boil and clicked itself off, her boys have started stirring. Just their bodies - she handles stirring their coffees.

 

“Mornin’”, she says, mugs in her hands extended to them, eyebrows raised as she watches Bobby all but spring off of where he’s sprawled atop Patrick’s front. He stares at her for a moment, comically caught-out, before he waves her over and she places one of the mugs in his hands.

 

“Sandy!” He says. “When did you get here?”

 

She shrugs, handing Patrick his mug, which he accepts, lifting to his lips and slurping loudly, but only shortly - retracting his hand immediately and wincing. _Way too hot_.

 

“Just long enough ago to be your barista this morning. I was _gonna_ wake you straight out, but…” Sandy holds up her phone, and, squinting, Bobby sees the photo she’d taken of the sight that had greeted her on entry. He blushes, and makes a halfhearted grab for her phone that she easily avoids.

 

“ _Sandy_ ,” he whines. “Not another for your blackmail folder.”

 

Patrick snorts, trying again with the coffee after blowing on it thoroughly. This time he manages a proper sip, and Sandy can't help but focus on his face, really trying to gauge his reaction. A twitch of the brows, pinching together first, before smoothing, the corners of his mouth turning upward a fraction, and his eyes lift to meet hers. _Hey, not bad_.

 

“Are you sticking around with us today?” Bobby asks, thumb tapping out a text on his phone that Sandy can't see. “‘Cause I’ve got a pretty good feeling about today, and I’m thinkin’ team Pat-Bob might need some extra hands in the kitchen down at the _Krab_.”

 

Sandy grins, taking a sip from her own coffee. “Sure, I think I can supply those extra hands. If’n I can get a special on the house, considerin’ I’m givin’ y’all my service for free, of course.”

 

Bobby laughs, tells her _sure, sure, of course_ , and Sandy steps around the couch, and both boys separate obligingly to make room for her. The last point of contact to break on them’s their joined hands, fingers slipping apart as Sandy fills the space between them. She notices, but says nothing about it. Instead, she asks;

 

“Speakin’ of specials, how did it go yesterday? I didn't get word from either of you about it.”

 

Pat and Bobby lean past her and exchange looks, talking with their eyebrows in that little way of theirs. Sandy does her best to interpret, head whipping back and forth to watch their expressions - Patrick eventually leans back with a smile he tries to smother with his mug of coffee, and Bobby comes away beaming.

 

“It went _awesome_ , Sandy, it went really really good. I mean, we didn’t rake in the dough for Mister K or anything, but the special itself?”

 

“Really damn successful,” Patrick says. “And I’m not just sayin’ that ‘cause I put the pineapple on it.”

 

Sandy snorts. “You and your pineapples, Bobby. You got him too?” She leans back against the couch cushions, blowing on her coffee. “I know I just said I’d go with you both today, but I’m puttin’ down a stipulation - I’ll work so long as I don’t gotta eat another burger with pineapple on it.”

 

Bobby’s grin doesn’t falter as he shifts, moving so his shoulder bumps hers. “Not today. This one’s gonna be _seriously_ special. Actually I’m thinkin’ it oughtta be classed as a dessert the way I’m goin.”

 

\---

 

When they first meet, Bobby takes her out to lunch. He gives her her keys that first day, and then he says, _aren’t you new in town?_ and he asks, _say, are you hungry?_ and he takes her to the Krab. It’s closed on Mondays, but he has a key, and Sandy finds she can’t say no to him when he takes her by the hand without thinking, finds she smiles along when he does. And when he makes her lunch she winces because she doesn’t really love when a burger’s got mayonnaise - so he grins apologetically and tells her he’ll remember next time. _Next time_.

 

Sandy laughs and tells him she thinks if he does remember, soon enough they’ll be _tighter than bark on a tree_ , and he laughs and laughs and she loops her little finger around his without thinking -- then he asks her if she thinks she’d prefer her patty on a doughnut instead of a bun.

 

At the time, she remembers, she’d said, _ew._ And now it’s day three of Chef Porter’s specials week at _Ye Olde Krusty Krabbe_ and she’s forced her hair underneath a hairnet and Bobby’s got her halving some pretty pink sugary buns called _conchas_ in the kitchen and he’s telling her they’re going to put burgers _inside_ these sugary buns and again, she says, _ew_.

 

“No, trust me,” Bobby says, patting her shoulder with the hand not holding a bunch of tiny yellow paper crowns. “It’s going to be amazing, you’ll see. You’ll _taste,_ and you’ll get it, I swear. Now _chop-chop_ , Miss Scudiero, chop _all_ the way to the top. Of this pile.” He waves that free hand at said pile of _conchas,_ then he bustles away to the other side of the kitchen. Sandy turns to look up at Patrick, who’s at her side at the counter on patty-shaping duty, with a half-exasperated, half-imploring look, as if to say, _you can’t possibly think this is a good idea, can you?_

 

He merely gives her his usual chilled out smile, the kind that says, _why of course I do, it’s me, Patrick Starr, and I eat everything._

 

“Have you taste tested this one?” She asks. Pat nods.

 

“Sure have. I think you’ll find you’ll be pleasantly surprised.” He presses a lump of patty meat into a rough circle, then starts shaping it a little neater in his hands. “And hey, if you _aren’t_? Then you know where it’s welcome.” He points to his belly and Sandy snorts.

 

“Well, I trusted him and his weird recipes this far. Did you know he once asked me if I thought using a _doughnut_ instead of a bun was a good idea?”

 

Pat laughs. “I _think_ that was probably his inspiration for _this_ one, y’know. We tried it once, out of town, with his ma and pa one summer when we were kids. Went to this kooky little place where they had it as a specialty. _The cheeseburger doughnut._ ” He stops his patty shaping to stare fondly into the distance, like he’s reminiscing. “It was _life-changing_. Reckon the only reason we’re not usin’ em today’s ‘cause these little mexican buns kinda look like seashells.”

 

Sandy hums. “Why’s it matter that they look like seashells?”

 

Patrick shrugs. “‘Cause we live at the beach? I think he’s got a whole thing going on for the theme of this one, but m’not sure. Not complainin’ either,” he says. “As long as it’s greasy, sugary, and _super_ unhealthy? I’m eatin’.”

 

Sandy laughs again. “Oh yeah, I forgot about your highly discerning palate.”

 

“Miss Scudiero, you’ll find I am a connoisseur.” Patrick chuckles, turning back to his work.

 

Then it’s quiet for a bit, save for the sounds of Bobby adjusting furniture out on the diner floor, and the whistling that accompanies every screech of chairs against ageing linoleum. Pat and Sandy work in a fairly amiable silence, but Sandy knows in her gut that she wants to get more out of him than quiet camaraderie.

 

“So you guys went on a lot of trips together as kids?” She asks, nonchalant. Patrick shrugs.

 

“I… yeah, pretty much. I spent… _most_ of my time with his family, when we were growin’ up.” Well, Sandy knows that much - Bobby’s shown her enough childhood photos, and over the time she’s known the both of them she’s pieced together a pretty good picture of the way things had been for Patrick growing up. She’s not got the _whole_ image, but the jist, certainly. Bobby is his family. That’s really all there is to it.

 

Patrick sniffs, and the sound snaps Sandy out of her trance. "They’re real nice, you met his parents yet?”

 

Sandy shakes her head. “Surprisingly no, but he talks about ‘em enough. Keeps saying I gotta come down to a Porter family barbecue some time, but I…” she hesitates. “Somethin’ always comes up, I guess.”

 

It goes quiet again, and Sandy carefully cuts another pink shell-shaped bun in half. “Maybe- maybe y’all should come down to Texas sometime, meet the Scudiero clan in return. What do you say, reckon you Porters could handle a real Texan summer?”

 

Patrick chuckles. “Yeah, right. Bobby can hardly handle the heat _here_ in the _spring_.”

 

“And what about _you_?”

 

Patrick hesitates, sniffs again, then answers her.

 

“Never been to _Texas_ , but my parents were from Mississippi. I dunno why they came up here in the first place, but…” he shrugs. “A-anyway. So, I been there a couple times. Usually stayed with my uncle. Never died or nothin’.” His hands, idle ‘til now, set back to work on patty prep. “It’s pretty south. S’it anything like that in Texas?”

 

Sandy shrugs. “I’ve… heard it’s humid?”

 

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, it’s definitely that.” He sets aside a finished patty, and looks up through the service window to see Bobby who’s started, for whatever reason, to scatter pink confetti on the tables. He catches Patrick’s eye, grins widely, and waves, little pink paper flowers sticking to his palm. Patrick waves back, and then he speaks, for the first time in three minutes, in a voice perfectly clear. “I prefer it here.” And when she looks up at him he flashes her a smile and it makes perfect sense, a little more dust comes away from the picture she’s got of him and she thinks maybe she gets him a little more.

 

\---

 

At about twenty-five minutes ‘til opening time, the doors swing open, and Pearl makes her entrance. One look around the place and her hesitant expression changes, melts into the kind of smile people reserve for the ones they love who they know are _really_ trying, even if it's in the most absurd and faintly embarrassing of ways.

 

“Is this what you meant by surprise?” She asks, bemused, as Bobby jumps down from where he’d been precariously balanced to hang a pink streamer. The entire eatery has gone from pirate kitsch to kitsch of the tween princess variety, and in the very middle of it, is Bobby, wearing a pair of pink springy antennae and drowning in a large pink Hawaiian shirt he’d borrowed from Patrick. It’s knotted at the waist like he’s seen Sandy wear them, and it looks utterly, utterly ridiculous.

 

“Well,” says Bobby, rushing to meet Pearl in the centre of the room. “Kinda. This isn't all of it. I still need you to try the burger.”

 

Then he reaches forward and takes her hands in his. He squeezes a little and tilts his head up as far back as he can to look into her eyes.

 

“It really means a lot to me that you came today. I...when you didn't show on Tuesday I was like...okay. It wasn't awesome, but I get it. Then yesterday… I got a little worried, but I figured you needed space.” He takes a breath. “ _Are_ you okay? I mean-- your dad?”

 

Pearl sighs.

 

“I’m sorry, Bobby. I know that must have totally freaked you out yesterday. It was… it was really stupid. Obviously-- like, _obviously_ it was all ‘cause of Jerry. When I got in-- like, after you walked me home…” She trails off, shrugs. “Do you, like, even wanna hear this?”

 

Bobby leads her to a table, nodding seriously, and never letting go of her hands.

 

“Sure I do. Open sign don't flip ‘til I say, today. C’mon. Tell me all about it.”

 

\---

 

In the kitchen, Patrick and Sandy stop eavesdropping.

 

“Ah. Okay. Now that makes sense.”

 

Pat steps back, nodding and scratching the scruff on his chin thoughtfully. Sandy follows him, eyes still lingering on the pair of Krab co-workers outside.

 

“What makes sense?” She asks.

 

“Why he wanted to use these lil’ pink shell buns.” He gives a little laugh, an odd, vaguely bemused scoff. “Huh. And there I was thinkin’ it was Princess Patricia he was making it for. Turns out Pearl was the princess all along.”

 

Sandy raises her eyebrows. “What?”

 

Patrick shakes his head, waves a hand.

 

“Aw, nothin’ really.” He turns so his back is to the service window, turns so he can face Sandy properly. “Well, not nothing. He was really freaked out yesterday, ‘cause Mister Krabbe came in like...super crabby.” He laughs briefly at his own little pun, before clearing his throat and speaking again. “Anyway. Bobby thought maybe it was somethin’ to do with his daughter. So last night after we got done with--” he pauses, and Sandy swears she sees his face flush a little. “--with everything here, and we were at home, he called her up and went out of the room to talk to her, then when he came back we took a drive to the dollar store and bought every single pink sparkly decoration we could find.” He gestures to the explosion of magenta confetti out on the diner floor. “And...viola.”

 

“It’s _voilà_ ,” Sandy corrects. “So… this is Bobby trying to… what, cheer her up?”

 

Pat shrugs.

 

“Probably. I guess. I think. He came up with this special when I think he was kinda mad at her, but…”

 

He turns back to the service window, and Sandy leans past him to follow where he’s looking. Sure enough, as he motions to them, the pair outside pull each other into a hug, and the way that Pearl wipes at her eyes doesn't escape Sandy’s notice.

 

“I mean. You know him. Bobby can't stay mad at anybody. He said he met up with her after she flaked on him and explained the whole thing...something about a guy.” He shrugs again. “Always about a guy, right?”

 

Sandy smiles and pats his arm. “Right. But, well, y’know. _Sometimes_ it’s about a girl.”

 

Patrick turns to her, brow cocked. She shrugs, grinning, and Patrick chuckles.

 

“Sure. How about this - I think it was about _love_.”

 

Sandy’s got her doubts about it being ‘love’ and not ‘teenage hormones running rampant,’ but she’ll let it go, especially when she finds that both she and Patrick are looking at Bobby. Like they always seem to be, now, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, elbow-to-elbow, both staring wistfully at the same boy. Her rational brain’s starting to find it ridiculous, to say nothing of the way her stomach goes fluttery now, sometimes, which is just. Wow. Absurd.

 

“Yup,” she says, snapping out of it, and lightly punching Patrick’s arm, all soft, no harm. Not like she might before, before she figured it out, before she realised what they’ve got in common. “It’s always about love.”

 

Patrick feigns hurt, then laughs, and turns back to his patties, so Sandy goes back to her slicing.

 

“You know, I still don't get it.” she says. “Why’s it matter that they look like seashells?”

 

Patrick takes one from her cut up pile, and mimes the opening and closing of a shell.

 

“Oyster shells got a pearl in ‘em, right?”

 

\--

 

Princess Pearl herself enters the burger eating experience with the same kind of scepticism that Sandy had. But all eyes are on her, and, face flushed scarlet, she takes a hesitant first bite. Breaths held, all three members of today’s _Krab_ kitchen staff lean forward expectantly, hands clasping one another’s, heads all inclined forward. They do not exhale until Pearl sets the burger back down.

 

“Well?” Bobby asks, voice more of a squeak. “How is it?”

 

“It’s...sweet?” Says Pearl.

 

“Like you!” Bobby says, quick as anything. Pearl’s expression splits into a true grin, wide and crinkle-nosed.

 

“Like _you_ , more like,” she says. Then she clears her throat. Her eyes flit around the room, taking in all the decor, every extra inch and mile a certain fry cook’s gone to try and make her smile. She opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. _Hmmms_ and _mmmms_ and really, _really_ drags out the tension, tapping her chin with her forefinger like she’s really mulling it over. Bobby giggles and plays up to it, faking distress, covering his face with his hands and then splitting his fingers to peek through when Pearl finally snaps her fingers, decision made.“It’s actually _surprisingly_ good.”

 

Then it’s shouts of _yes!_ all ‘round, and the culinary crew all fling their arms around each other, slapping high fives and shaking each other in excitement. Then, once the initial celebration’s subsided, Bobby turns to Pearl, brows pinched together, just a little more serious.

 

“But...joking aside, it’s alright, right?”

 

Pearl shrugs, picking a stray piece of salad out from inside the bun.

 

“Sure! It’s definitely not something _I’d_ come up with, and I don’t know _what_ Daddy would think of it, but you know. Weirdly? It works. It’s like, totally _not_ an every day kinda sandwich, _but…_ ” she pops the tomato slice she’d extracted into her mouth. “I think it’ll be, like, a more-than-okay kind of a special.”

 

Bobby grins, knees dipping with relief. He flashes her a customary double thumbs-up, then a salute. “Allright, I will take that more-than-okay gladly, thank you _very_ much, Miss Krabbe.” Then he straightens up. “So, um. I mean, you don’t have to stay, if you don’t wanna. We’re opening up soon and--”

 

Pearl shakes her head and gets herself to her feet. She takes a deep breath, then returns his thumbs up-and-salute.

 

“Nope, I’m staying. Where’s my punchcard?”

 

\---

 

Edward rolls in at his usual last-possible-minute, newspaper under his arm and fancy coffee in his hand. He stops when he sees Pearl in the kitchen leaning against one of the counters, wincing and grimacing as Sandy stands on tip-toe, trying to stretch a hairnet over the teenager’s ‘do in a way that won’t totally destroy the pompadour, and all the while spouting reassuring country sympathies every time it seems like the fancy hairstyle might meet its end.

 

Nobody even notices when he takes his usual place behind the register, and that suits him just fine.

 

Team reluctant-hair-net-wearers shed their hairnets halfway through the morning and decide to take their business to the store front, drawing up a sign and turning up the charm to try and get people to come in. Sandy’s got a surprising knack for sign-spinning that even she wasn’t aware of, while Pearl’s got the right kind of booming voice to draw people’s attention. Plus they’re both wearing pink, and sparkly plastic tiaras, which catches the eye of both little girls _and_ their mothers. The combined factors make for a pretty successful business day, though Bobby _is_ a little disappointed to find a fair few plates coming back to the kitchen only half-finished. _Oh well_ , he says, _at least they tried em!_

 

Patrick attempts to ‘clean up’ the burgers himself, on the grounds of _waste-not-want-not_ , but Bobby’s firm on the negatory there.

 

Mr Krabbe does not make an appearance the entire working day, but he pulls up in his car at closing time, and three-quarters of Bobby’s kitchen team peek over the lip of the service window to watch the exchange between their fourth member and her father.

 

Edward surges forward as Pearl does, a wary half-step behind her, a stern look directed to his friend-turned-manager. Like a father himself, he stands beside her as she waits for Krabbe, who approaches looking sheepish.

 

This time they’re inside the building to talk, and the kitchen crew can’t _help_ but overhear.

 

“Pearly, darling,” begins Krabbe. “I thought long and hard today about how I reacted. It wasn’t fair to you, and I never meant to embarass ye when it came to that boy’s parents.”

 

He sighs, running a grizzled hand through grey hair.

 

“I just-- I _just_ \-- I couldn’t stand the thought of you bein’ heartbroken. Now me, I’ve known nothin’ but, considerin’ everything with yer mother--”

 

“Daddy, _please_ ,” Pearl says, sudden, imploring. Krabbe nods.

 

“Right, right.” He takes a deep breath. “I couldn’t stand the thought of ye bein’ heartbroken while that lad got away with it, but I never should have gone down there, or made such a scene. And Mister Edward--”

 

Krabbe cranes his neck up, this tiny old boxer looking meek as anything beneath the withering gaze of his oldest, tallest friend.

 

“--you were right. You were right, as ye always are. I let me temper get the better of me, and I went and made a fool of myself.”

 

Edward sighs. “Someday, Eugene, you might listen to me.” Then he reaches down, and pats Krabbe’s shoulder. “At least this time you didn’t set anyone on fire.” Then he stops, and turns hurriedly to Pearl. “He didn’t, right?”

 

Pearl laughs weakly. “Nope, his lighter stayed in his pockets the whole time.”

 

Edward nods. “Then that’s progress, I suppose.” Then steps back, hands spread to Pearl, leaving the rest of the conversation to her.

 

“Daddy…” she starts. “I know cheating’s a sore topic for you. You shouldn’t have freaked like that, but I- I guess I get why you did. Just...promise you won’t ever do that again? And _definitely_ , definitely not on my account. Okay?”

 

Krabbe nods.

 

“Okay, Pearly.”

 

“Good,” says Pearl. And right when she stoops down to embrace her father, Edward looks over his shoulder and glares daggers at the trio of twenty-somethings spying on the interaction from the kitchen. The three of them get the message and duck down lightning fast, all already exchanging hurried, whispered theories about just what it was Mr Krabbe even _did_ to this boy and his parents. Patrick’s just suggesting _maybe he peed on their lawn_ when Edward pops his head over the windowsill.

 

“Alright, they’ve made up, and they’ve gone. You eavesdroppers can stop guessing, he just drove down there and shouted at them for a while.” Then he pauses. “And he may or may not have thrown a punch.”

 

The trio pull each other sheepishly to their feet.

 

“Who won?” asks Patrick. Edward glares.

 

“It’s not really about winning in that kind of situation, Patrick.” He says. A pause. “But it was Eugene, _obviously_. That boy’s father was as slim as an anchovy. Our beloved Captain knocked him out with one punch. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he’s not pressing charges.”

 

Bobby pales, but Edward just gives a _bah_ , and a wave of the hand.

 

“I think if his son wants to avoid suspension, this whole situation’s at a stalemate. Besides, this is hardly the worst thing Krabbe’s ever done, trust me.” He sniffs. “Now, are you three going to clean and lock up, or do I have to do everything around here?”

 

They scramble to attention, and end up splitting into teams. Pat and Edward handle the heavy lifting out on the diner floor. Patrick tears off his overshirt and rolls the sleeves of his tee right up, then reaches forward and rolls Edward’s sleeves up for him too. Edward disapproves strongly, and hurries to roll the sleeves back down before they get to moving a single table or chair. Bobby and Sandy end up cleaning the kitchen, with their sleeves only rolled as far back as their elbows.

 

“Sandy,” says Bobby. “Can I tell you somethin’?”

 

He passes her a dish scrubbed clean, and she accepts it in dish towel covered hands.

 

“Sure you can.” She replies, wiping droplets away with practiced precision.

 

“Okay. It’s about Patrick.”

 

Sandy lowers her plate, intrigued.

 

“Yes?”

 

Bobby takes her wrists and lifts them back to their action poses.

 

“I think I realised somethin’ about him. Or maybe it was him realising something about me. Or- maybe it was both of us. You asked me, a couple days ago, you remember? When you saw me kiss him, but, you know. Like friends do. Well… Last night. Here. In this…” he takes a couple of steps back, and points toward the pantry with the toe of his shoe. “In _this_ spot. We- um.” He takes a deep breath, shuffles back to his spot in front of the sink and looks pointedly down at the dirty dishes. “We kissed.” He takes a breath. “We _kiss_ kissed.” It’s a moment or two before he looks up again, and when he does, Sandy’s grinning fit to crack her face, her eyes sparkling with glee.

  
“Did you really?” She asks. Bobby nods, face flushed redder than a tomato. His eyes are shining and he’s trying to fight the grin from his face, for whatever reason trying to seem cool about it. Sandy rolls her eyes and puts down her plate and her dish cloth, taking instead his face into her hands and suddenly he seems the most wonderful, glowing person on the planet.

 

“We did. We did, and… I get it, now, I think. How I feel about him and I want to tell you, okay? I want to tell you that I feel that way about-- about-- you. Too. And I don’t know what that means or if you feel that way about _me_ , or even- even about _him_ , but…”

 

Sandy doesn’t consider herself terribly romantic. In her life she’s had one night stands and dates that never went past the rule of three, pretty girls who wanted more from her and handsome guys who took too much. She knows with all the parts of her that _can_ know that love’s a chemical reaction, and it’s fleeting and she’s never really felt the kind of love that’s long and strong enough to make someone _look_ like that, look the way Bobby does when he knows he’s in love with his best friend and maybe her _too_ and suddenly--

 

Suddenly she wants it, so bad. And in her mind logic battles with reason battles with all of the facts, and in her heart there’s nothing but a loud thumping, beating drum, and here is this ridiculous boy who pulls out all the stops for everyone he knows, who makes her want to try just as hard as he does every day, and just like that, she kisses him. She has to stoop to do it, and he rises on his toes to even out the distance, and it lasts just one lovely moment before they pull apart, suddenly their normal heights again.

 

For a second, there’s nothing else in the world to her, and all Sandy can see is how his glow didn’t _stop_ , maybe she didn’t do it _wrong_ because he’s still smiling, his face hasn’t fallen and everything’s fine.

 

At least until there’s a loud, pointed _cough_ from the doorway and Edward flaps a menu at them, ending their little smooch session with a grumpy demand that they get back to work, _for goodness sake, I want to go home_ . Then with matching blushes dusting their faces, dishes go back into hands and the evening spins along. And until they leave the _Krab_ , there’s still nothing else in the world to Sandy. Just her, the dishes, and the boy next to her, and nothing else in the world.

 

And if someone else happened to be just on the edge of that world, on the outside just looking in, then she doesn’t know about it. And if that person that happened to see were ever to say out loud that they saw it, well--

 

They wouldn’t.

 

Because how could they? Not then that world makes so much sense, not when that world takes the place of another from just the very night before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact about the viola/voila thing. one time, i was reading this garfield comic, and garfield gets himself stuck in a window blind. jon has to free him, so he like, just whips garfield right out and he says: "voila! one cat out of the blind!" but i was like 8 and didnt know french but i did know what a viola was so i was like. hm. why's he talk about the stringed instrument when he rescues his pet? i told my sister about this and she never let it go and so ALWAYS says 'viola' when she means voila, just to remind me of my own childhood misunderstanding there.
> 
> anyway whew! that's over now. well, no it's not. the drama is just a-stirring. bobby's had 2 kisses now, which is nice, but lines are starting to get crossed. ooooh, dagnabbit. these kids gonna catch some feelings.
> 
> anyway. if you know who i am on tumblr, hit me up! if you've got your suspicions, i'm probably the person you're thinking of. the reason i dont have the same screen name here as on there? secret. secret reasons.


	9. ACT 2, PART 4: the crayon crusader's burger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok, i've got a plan, and i just need you to bear with this chapter. it's mostly just patrick /feeling things/.

 

_TODAY’S SPECIAL: Defeat evil and be imbued with the courage of the CRAYON CRUSADER when you order today’s delicious specialty burger with colourful spicy cheese, a side of fries and a very artistic colourful catsup embellishment by in-kitchen artist, First Mate Starr._

 

For as long as Patrick’s known him, Bobby’s been prone to having crushes. He’s a soppy romantic, quick to fall what he calls ‘in love’ - with every teen dream heartthrob who graces the poster of a cheesy drama-romance, with every sunbather who smiles at him down on the beach, with the occasional teacher or neighbour too. His crushes are fleeting and more often than not no-one ever even really notices he has them -- Bobby’s just that nice to _everyone_.

 

Patrick, of course, can tell, and knows when it is that Bobby’s _all in_.

 

He wouldn’t _admit_ it, but he’s been able to tell when it comes to Bobby and how he feels about _Sandy_ for the whole three-years-and-a-couple-months they’ve known her. But Bobby’s not rude or one to ever even say it out loud, so he’s also never made a move. For all of his gusto for life, Pat’s _very_ aware that Bobby rarely takes _true_ risks of the heart. He’ll bodily throw himself into anything from a free one-day ice sculpting class to a spontaneous chilli cook-off with nothing but passion and enthusiasm, but he comes over all bashful when it comes to leaning in and letting himself be kissed.

 

Here is another thing: Patrick knows that, until the evening before, Bobby had only ever been kissed by _one_ person (on the mouth, with _that_ sort of feeling,) and that person was Patrick himself.

 

So why is it now that Pat’s sitting in his own room, on his own bed, having slept alone for the first time in a week?

 

It had all been easier when Bobby didn’t have any guts. They’ve always been a couple of spineless chickens _together_ \-- and, _god,_ maybe it’s all down to Patrick. If _he_ hadn’t made a move, and left things the way they were, maybe nothing would have changed. But _then_ maybe -- maybe Sandy making _her_ move’s something set in stone, something that’d happen no matter what.

 

The real stinger is that it had looked just _right_ , when Sandy grabbed Bobby by the front of his borrowed shirt and kissed him, the pair of them bright and beautiful under the flickering fluorescent lamp-light of the kitchen. Patrick can count the few most beautiful sights in his life on one hand and that one -- that had taken the cake. Neither of them looked less than blissful, neither less than utterly in love.

 

 _How could she_ , he remembers thinking. _He just told me he loved_ me _. He just said he loved me, and_ she _kisses him._ And then, he’d thought; _how could_ he _? He just told me loved me, and he kissed her right_ back _._

 

He’d dashed away when he’d realised he was staring, bumped into Edward halfway through his heel-pivot, and barely managed to grunt an apology as he hurried to the other end of the diner floor to make himself look busy with the napkin dispenser -- where he stayed right up until lock-up. By then, he’d composed himself enough to look his usual brand of nonchalant, already in the driver’s seat of his car when the others finally emerge from the _Krab_. Bobby had opened the car door for Sandy, bowing low and ridiculous, and Sandy had laughed and shoved his shoulder and slid into the back seat. Patrick remembers he’d held his breath to see if Bobby would choose to sit with her of jump into his usual spot on the shotgun side. He remembers almost forgetting to take a breath again when the door clicks shut and Bobby’s not beside him, and to cover his gasp for air, Patrick had called out to Edward to offer him a lift home too.

 

 _Don’t they say that two’s company, but three’s a crowd?_ Pat had thought. _What’s that make four?_

 

Four makes it easier when you realise you’re a tack-on to that two, and Patrick had had to smother his feelings for the sake of a smooth ride, cranked the radio despite the protests of the slender older englishman beside him, and drove in that weird wavering line between _nothing to lose_ and _nowhere really to be_.

 

Edward had left them at his own door, thanked them curtly for the ride before disappearing, and then there were three. Bobby’d been first through the door, his hand slipping from Sandy’s as he’d fumbled for his keys. Sandy had just begun to follow Bobby through the door when Patrick had faltered, and tripped over a trailing shoelace.

 

It had been Sandy that caught his arm, her touch something warm and strange and electric, sticking like static as her hand had slipped down from his elbow to wrist, her thumb pressed to his pulse point.

 

“Thanks,” Pat had managed, the word coming out too rushed. “I gotta remember to double-knot those.”

 

Both their eyes had dropped to his beat-up old running shoes, worn and pink and scuffed, but sturdy. A little curve of a smile had quirked Sandy’s lip, and she’d just nodded and disappeared inside. Patrick had stood outside thinking about the feeling of her hand on his arm for a moment longer before following her inside, shaking his head and scratching the stubble on his chin as he’d kicked the door shut behind him, then kicked his shoes off.

 

They three had taken the couch, after Bobby had checked to make sure the specially-ordered bottles of crayon-coloured catsup he’d snagged from the asian supermarket a town over the week before was still safe in the fridge. Sandy had once again made a face, which had prompted Bobby to demand she take a taste test. She’d sworn against burgers for the night after a whole day of being around them, so Bobby had defrosted a bag of frozen chicken nuggets and they’d all crammed together on the couch to see just how the colourful condiment compared.

 

Patrick had found himself sat _between_ Bobby and Sandy, found they’d leaned across and over him constantly, passing each other scraps of food and pushing themselves up close as they could to Patrick, almost like they were trying to squish right _through_ him to be nearer to each other, and though he couldn’t _see_ it, he could feel their arms laid across each other behind him, stretched right out across the back of the couch, and could feel it, feel _them_ , every time he leaned back.

 

In the present, he scrubs his face with his hands and wonders why they didn’t just _ask_ him to move. It didn’t seem very _fair_ , the way they’d acted all _ga-ga_ for each other when he was _right there_ , right in the middle of it all. He hates to think that maybe they _knew_ , maybe they were doing it to taunt him.

 

 _No way, Bobby’s my best friend,_ he thinks. _He wouldn’t do that to me_.

 

So Patrick does his best to push past the thought, the way he’d pushed gently past them the night before, bidding them goodnight a little earlier than he’d usually turn in. And then he pushes himself further, pushes up off of his bed, stands and gets ready to try and make sense of the day.

 

\---

 

Sandy is not there when he enters the living room, and not there in the kitchen either. She does not appear with Bobby when Bobby, too, emerges from his room, and Pat’s stomach tries to rise and to fall simultaneously as he comes to the conclusion that she did not spend the night. _Okay._

 

Bobby shuffles past Patrick, patting his shoulder as he goes, a sleepy gesture, hitting its mark only through years of practice. The sandy-haired chef makes a beeline for the fridge, while Patrick leans himself against the counter, picking up the bottle of blue ketchup they’d been taste testing the night before.

 

“You all ready for today?” Patrick asks, rolling the bottle between his hands. “Four out of five.”

 

Bobby’s head pokes out from behind the fridge.

 

“Sure am, Pat. Are you?”

 

“Of course!” Patrick says, trying to sound bright. Bobby regards him with eyes slightly narrowed, and Pat feels sweat suddenly prickle the back of his neck - but Bobby says nothing, and Patrick’s heart stops trying to beat itself loud and fast right out of his chest.

 

\--

 

Sandy continues to not be there at the _Krab_ , when Pat and Bobby roll up at their usual early-bird hour, armed with all the necessary condiments and the gusto to get going. Bobby’s just as handsy with Patrick as he always is, looping his arm through Pat’s to drag him where he needs to go, slapping his back and his shoulders as they knock over pots and pans in the kitchen. It’s very nearly their usual brand of overly-affectionate normal, but Patrick can’t help thinking about Bobby’s gap-toothed grin and how much he’d like to kiss it away into an expression something softer, and he also can’t stop thinking about Sandy doing the same _thing_.

 

The thing is that he doesn’t know what either of those kisses really _meant_. Not so many words were exchanged, the night of the _pineapple party burger_ , and still fewer on the topic after he witnessed the kiss on the night of the _pretty princess_. It had stood to reason, at first, that the kiss on the mouth had meant something deeper than the kisses Bobby smacks to Patrick’s forehead on the days he works and Patrick doesn’t, simply on the basis that it _wasn’t_ just a forehead kiss. Logic suggests -- it _had_ to have been a step up. But they haven’t kissed that way _since_ , and then, of course, Bobby had had to go and kiss Sandy that same way -- so are _they_ just friends? Patrick racks his brains. _Are_ we _just friends? How much kissing can a friend do with a friend before it’s not ‘just friends’ anymore!?_ _And--_

 

Patrick jerks out of his stupor when Bobby snaps his fingers in his face, brandishing ketchup bottles and calling for help with filling out an order - creating the ‘crayons’ in ketchup all around the plate. _You’re the better artist,_ he says, with that stupid smile that makes Patrick think he can do anything. _Please and thank you, buddy_.

 

“Cheese and frank you too,” Says Patrick, which earns him a laugh as he takes the bottles he’s handed and makes short work of the crayola re-creation he’s not-actually-been-employed to create in the first place. And when he steps back to admire his work, Bobby flashes him with that beaming smile and his classic double-thumbs-up, and Patrick longs yet again for something _more_. He’s had a taste now, after all, and goodness knows he’s known for being a more than a little gluttonous.

 

\---

 

There’s been a lull in orders for the past thirty or so minutes, and in the back the boys have taken to playing online scrabble by passing each other Patrick’s phone. Patrick’s about to put down a _really_ good one, but before he can, there’s a holler from Edward.

 

“Robert! Are you awake in there?”

 

Bobby scrambles for the service window, jumping up, hoisting his upper half right through, balanced on his elbows.

 

“Aye-aye, number two! What’s up--”

 

He doesn’t get any further with that sentence, voice interrupted by the huge grin that spreads across his face, Patrick can see that in spite of the turned-away angle. He crosses the room in two long strides to investigate for himself, though he's pretty sure he knows who it is that’s gonna be there.

 

“Hey Bobby!” Sandy says, bright and excited, and then she leans a little to the left, directing a finger-waggly wave at Patrick. She’s in her usual getup, a white lace off-shoulder top that ends high above her bellybutton, and the same ripped denim shorts he’s seen her in the past three times she’s been around. Her caffeine-molecule necklace gleams at her throat and Pat’s so distracted by the little silver glint of it that he almost misses when she greets him, like she did with Bobby but in a softer tone; _hey Patrick,_ and all Pat does is stand dumbfounded, just about managing to lift a hand in an answering wave before her hips tip back into place and she's standing straight and upright again. She directs her request for _the crayon crusader's burger_ to Edward, who doesn't even bother turning to Bobby to pass on the order - he just lifts an arm and waves his hand limply around. Bobby reaches forward, grabs Edward's wrist, slaps his hand in an extremely awkward high-five, and keeps his eyes on Sandy the whole time.

 

“Comin’ right up, Miss Scudiero,” he says, and then he jumps backward and back into the kitchen, spatula back in his hands before his feet make it back to the ground. Patrick, too, snaps back into action, but just out of the corner of his eye he catches Sandy turn away and head for a lonesome table somewhere in the centre of the diner floor. And when he heads back to his own station, if he angles just right, he can still see white lace and dark curls out of that furthest corner of his eye, and he tries not to think about her, and Bobby. Tries not to think about her, and that _kiss_.

 

\---

 

It’s been a fair few minutes since the ding of the bell and the call of _order’s up!_ before a notification bloops out of the phone in Pat’s pocket, and Sandy’s name flashes up on his screen. He wonders why the text came to _him_ and not Bobby, but when he looks across the kitchen he can see that Bobby’s laser-focused on the grill -- _gee, you’re standing around waiting for an order and then four come along --_ and probably wouldn’t have noticed a text even if he’d gotten one.

 

Patrick swipes it open and it reads;

 

 **Sandy:** hey i gotta jet, but tell bobby good luck with the rest of the day ok? and tell him thanks for lunch! it was delicious!  <3

 

Dumbly, he responds with;

 

 **Patrick:** i drew th crayons on there

 

And a moment later;

 

 **Sandy:** :’) and they were the best part. thank YOU too patrick. ok i gotta go but i’ll see you guys later! will you tell bobby to look up please?

 

 **Patrick:** ok

 

He does as requested, then leans himself back, catching Sandy as she waves goodbye to them both. Patrick waves to her, heart fluttering in a way he doesn’t really understand and then looks to Bobby, and Bobby grins yet again, wide and goofy and just the way Patrick loves it, but directed somewhere else, just the way it makes Pat’s chest ache just a little inside. And then he turns to Patrick, and his grin doesn’t falter, but neither does that little hurt inside. It settles and stays right there when Bobby turns around, back to the grill, and Patrick swallows back all the weird feelings bubbling up inside of him.

 

\---

 

The day finishes and they total a surprisingly decent amount of specials sold, and Edward is surprisingly amenable to the ride they offer him home, as well as the soundtrack they choose for the drive. It’s all calm and pleasant, and Sandy is waiting for them on the steps up to the apartment.

 

She breezes up to Pat and Bobby like a marble statue in motion, elegant and sort of scary all at once, and Bobby greets her with a hug. She greets him with two kisses, a peck on the cheek and one on the lips, and before Patrick’s belly can come alight with envy, she stands up on tiptoes and does the exact same to him, like it was nothing unusual or utterly brand new at all.

 

Bobby grabs her hand and they hurry up the stairs together, and Patrick follows them up and the fire in his belly fights to be red, or green, or something else in-between, and his heart pounds and his mouth goes dry and he’s sweating something awful by the time he makes it inside the apartment.

 

They three take the sofa, much as they had done the night before. No more kisses are exchanged, and Bobby and Sandy try, as they had done the night before, to touch each other as much as they can with Patrick still right there in between them.

 

Nothing makes sense about it, and this is nothing like any movie he’s ever seen or book he couldn’t be bothered to read. Love is a formula and he is a third wheel, and the guy never chooses his best friend, and that best friend’s maybe-girlfriend never chooses the guy either.

 

Nothing makes sense about it, and he does not fall asleep on the couch even as the pair looped and huddled around him to. Pat leans back on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling and the fire’s all but dimmed into a uncertain bubbling inside him, hot swirls of something he thinks is love and something he thinks is anger. Maybe fear, jealously, maybe nothing except nerves, maybe just wanting something so, _so_ bad.

  
And the half of him that knows this is nothing like the movies finally falls quiet enough to give over to the half of him that really kind of likes being here, not _between_ but _with_ them, with the boy he loves more than anything and the girl who loves him who… well, he’s not sure yet, but he feels like maybe someday he could love her too. That half of him, the half of him that’s happy despite the half of him that isn’t, that takes charge enough to let him fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> right, right, i promise something dramatic will happen, i am leading up to it. hopefully you're picking up the breadcrumbs and repetitive themes im putting down, and ALSO, colourful ketchup is real. its from the philippines & its made with bananas. https://tinyurl.com/y98oucjy have a look-see for yourself!


	10. ACT 2, PART 5: the split sea burger.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hery everyone! lots of stuff been happening recently. school has really whooped my ass, sucking me dry but this story has not yet given up on me!!! so if you're reading this, welcome back!
> 
> here is the first chapter of the new year, and the final chapter of ACT 2: BURGERS OF THE DAY. things come to a head - this is a chapter i actually wrote months and months ago, when I was still outlining the plot of this fic. i know it might seem a little odd that things suddenly turn so (spoiler warning) IMMENSELY sour in the span of one chapter, but everything's going according to my plan.

_ TODAY’S SPECIAL: Cross all kinds of lines when you try today’s special. One half, the onion-jalapeno-apricot burger of a summer long ago, and the other, the meatfree-acorn fusion burger of only the most rustic home BBQs. Pulled together with a sprinkle of sea-salt,  the split-sea burger, two-patties-in one that are so wrong yet so right together! _

 

Bobby is first to wake up, as is customary. He’s got his head on Patrick’s shoulder and his legs curled up tight, an arm stretched across Patrick’s belly, fingers brushing Sandy’s, who, in her sleep, had completed the strange seatbelt they’d formed around Patrick’s body. Bobby is the first to wake up and he thinks,  _ this is how I always want it to be _ .

 

Sandy is the next to wake up, if only because Patrick is  _ never  _ not last. Her fingers twitch and she feels when Bobby’s move, his hand retracting and then inching forward again, the tips of them tracing her knuckles, and when she opens her eyes she can see Bobby’s up too, and he smiles at her and then he smiles up at Patrick, still sleeping, and Sandy thinks,  _ this is how I always want it to be _ .

 

Patrick is the last to wake up, and he comes to with a weird half-cough-half-yawn-half hiccup, which makes him think,  _ hm, I don’t think that’s how to do fractions _ . The motion of the cough-yawn-cup bumps Bobby and Sandy’s hands apart, and he watches their hands fall away from each other and away from him and then he thinks,  _ huh _ .

 

“Mornin’,” he says, stretching his arms up over his head.

 

“Mornin’,” says Sandy, and Bobby echoes her. Then they all three drag themselves, and each other, to their feet, grumbling and stretching as they go.  _ It really ain’t good to sleep sittin’ on the couch, guys, _ says Sandy. Bobby touches his toes and then straightens up.  _ We wouldn’t all fit in my bed. _ Patrick cracks his neck.  _ Or mine. Even I don’t fit in there though, all my clothes live on my bed. _ Bobby winces and suggests they set aside a day to clean in there, but Patrick just laughs loudly, shakes his head, and shuffles along the floor in his socks to get to the kitchen. 

 

Over an improvised breakfast of leftovers, ice cream and oranges, the trio decide on the day’s plans. Sandy  _ ums _ and  _ ahs _ about whether or not she should go home and get some work done, but the thought of seeing the general public’s reaction to her father’s half of  _ the split sea _ burger does have her curiosity piqued. Patrick suggests they turn tomorrow’s youth centre class into a cookout, that way they can get the general public under twelve’s reaction too. Bobby laughs, and agrees that it’s definitely a good idea, but he wants to get through  _ today _ first.

 

\---

 

(Getting through today will turn out different for all three members of Bobby’s kitchen team.)

 

Sandy breaks in the morning to get herself showered and presentable, and joins them at the  _ Krab _ at the start of business hour three, where people are already sending back compliments to the chef, all of which go through Edward’s pessimism filter before reaching Bobby -- though he of course has his own  _ optimism _ filter firmly locked in place, so not too much gets lost in translation. Sandy pulls her hairnet on and tags Patrick out on slicing duty. He slaps tomato juice onto her palm and laughs when she rolls her eyes, and doesn't complain when she grumbles and wipes it off on his too-small  _ Krab _ uniform vest.

 

Patrick shuffles his way ‘round to the cashier’s desk, where Edward sits in his novelty lifeboat boat and thumbs his way through the day’s newspaper. He’s just getting done with a conversation with Mr. Krabbe, who gives Pat a curt nod -  _ Everything ship-shape in there, Mister Patrick? _ Pat salutes with a lazy grin -  _ Aye-aye, Cap’n,  _ and then Krabbe disappears, and Patrick takes the spot he’d just been occupying, elbow leant against the starboard side of the cash register.

 

“Patrick,” Edward says, “This may be a record for my peace and quiet getting interrupted.”

 

Pat snorts. “It’s not really all that quiet far as I can see.” He sniffs. “Hear.”

 

Edward’s eyes don't lift from the personals. “Was there something you needed?” he asks, in a tone that plainly states ‘ _ I would much rather do anything but help you, but I’m still trying to maintain some sense of good manners, here _ .’

 

Patrick shrugs. “Nah, not really. Sandy’s taken over for me in there so I thought I’d come and see my ol’ buddy Ed out here.”

 

“Spare me,” Edward says, but he lowers his newspaper.

 

“Well, we’re friends aren't we?” Patrick says, eyes idly sweeping the diner’s seating area, the mixed expressions on the faces of the customers that ordered the special. Edward makes an odd noise which, in another world, could have been construed as a chuckle.

 

“Isn't this Robert’s bit, Patrick? Surely you don't derive the same kind of pleasure from winding me up as he does.”

 

Pat shrugs again. Truth be told, he doesn't quite see what Bobby does in Edward. The guy’s older by about two decades, doesn't appreciate classic rock, and constantly looks like he’s smelled something foul. Not that the age thing’s really such an issue, but if Pat didn't know better he’d suspect that Edward was actually displaced from time and really came from, say, the fifties or something. There's something about the guy -- the undoubtedly vintage clothes he wears don't make him look trendy so much as like he genuinely  _ belongs _ in that time period. And, well, far as high school history tells him, Pat’s pretty sure they didn't know how to really have fun back in the middle ages.

 

“Eh,” Pat says. “Force of habit.”

 

“You really  _ do _ do everything he does, don't you?” Edward says, but then his expression softens a little. “You really are the very best of friends.” He clears his throat. “I see the three of you have been showing up here together quite a lot recently. Has Robert spoken to you yet?”

 

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Speaks to me all the time, chief. Every day, in fact.”

 

Edward frowns. “I  _ meant. _ About Sandra. And what all that means between the lot of you.”

 

Patrick’s blood runs suddenly cold, and his guts tighten up inside him.  _ Oh, no. Oh, crap. Oh, stronger expletive _ .

 

“Oh-- yeah, totally. We’ve totally talked.” A lie, of course. There's a rational part of his brain that says,  _ hey, don't panic.  _ It says;  _ it could be anything. It could be about carpooling again. It could be about finally getting us paid for all the work we do around the  _ Krab _. It could be about how we had ‘Just Dance’ turned up  _ way _ too loud last night. _

 

Then, of course, there’s the louder part of his brain that says _abort mission! Divert conversation! Scream very very loudly!_ _He is going to ask just what in the hell you’re doing, trying to get cosy with Bobby when both he and you saw Bobby mackin’ on Sandy two nights ago! He’s going to be all ‘oh, you should get out of the way of that.’ He’s going to be all ‘can’t you see they’re just_ right _for each other?’_ Patrick wars with his internal monologue, just about registering that Edward’s still talking. He nods and goes, _yep, yup, totally_ at what he thinks are the appropriate parts, all the while wrestling with his worries.

 

“...and I really thought it was high time you all talked. It doesn’t do to not  _ communicate _ , Patrick, it really doesn’t. So I  _ am _ glad you’ve sorted it out. After all,  _ they _ certainly look happy.”

 

Patrick gulps, and nods again, attention fully back in place. He spares the kitchen a glance, and, _yep. Yep, they sure do_ , he thinks, and, “yep, they sure do,” he says, out loud. Then he shakes his head. _Damn, if Eddy ain’t right as rain is._ They _do_ look happy, and right together, and who the hell is Pat to get in the way of that? He grimaces and nods again as Edward continues to say something Pat’s not entirely paying attention to. He’s gotten the main part. Bobby’s happy with Sandy. He’s been passed over, because of _course_ he has. So while Edward prattles away about being _glad it’s all sorted then_ , Patrick gives a curt nod and decides to busy himself over by the condiments bar. Surely the ketchup needs refilling, or something.

 

\---

 

Turns out it doesn’t, but it doesn’t stop him from giving it the ol’ college try, and putting in that extra few globs worth that takes the amount back up to the  _ ‘fill to here’ _ line. He takes as long as he  _ possibly _ can on that, and eventually once a small line of people desperate for dip starts forming behind him, he concedes that that’s really all he can do there. So he diverts his attention to cleaning tables and clean then he does, with gusto, until he runs out of good cleaning cloths and needs to go back into the kitchen for fresh ones, and, well.

 

Bobby and Sandy have the radio going, and the grill’s sizzling away, and Bobby demonstrates just what a master chef he is as he manages to dance with Sandy without any of the food burning. His one hand is holding hers, the other flipping burgers on the spare beats, and they're laughing and they look  _ lovely _ and Sandy spins around, and catches Patrick’s eye, and she winks.

 

She winks, and he doesn't quite know what to make of that.

 

Sandy spins back and the song melts away, and she and Bobby giggle and Pat remembers he needed cleaning cloths. 

 

\---

 

They get a break for a late lunch. Bobby flips the little sign next to the service window from  _ ‘the cook is IN’  _ to  _ ‘the cook is out’  _ and makes, for Sandy, a whole apricot-jalapeno burger, and, for Patrick, a whole meatfree acorn burger. For himself, just the fries, today.

 

Sandy praises the half of the burger that she didn't choose, licking away a blob of apricot preserve from the corner of her mouth. Patrick gives a thumbs up, mouth too full to say anything out loud, and Bobby sits back in the little plastic chair he’d taken from the storage closet, and allows himself, for the first time today, to breathe in and out, long and deep and measured.

 

“This is the last day of specials week, guys,” he says, his hands spread on the table in front of him, either side of his plate of fries. “Crazy, huh?”

 

Patrick and Sandy both nod their heads, and Bobby breathes deep again. “Yeah. And, uh, and after all’a this, Mister K’s gonna tell me what he thinks, gonna tell me if...if this is all it’ll be, or if maybe he’ll give me a shot at my dream. And- and I couldn't have done it without you guys, you  _ know _ that, I’m really nothin’ without either of you and--” his voice wavers. “--and I know it’s just- just a greasy spoon in the middle of nowhere, but-  _ but _ \- thanks.  _ Thank you,  _ you guys. You know. For being here.”

 

Both his friends reach across the table and take his hands, Pat his left, Sandy his right. Sandy winks and lifts his hand, pressing a kiss, bright magenta, to his knuckles and laughing. Patrick’s eyes drop, and he squeezes Bobby’s hand tight for a moment before hurriedly letting go.

 

“Well,” Bobby says, trying to pretend like the way Patrick had jerked his hand away didn't sting, “come on, team. Time’s a-wasting, and we got one last specials day to get through.”

 

\---

 

Something’s changed between Patrick and Sandy, and he doesn’t know  _ what _ it is. They’d been getting along, that had been  _ obvious _ , the past week or so they’d seemed to get closer and closer, and Bobby’s heart had fluttered between dread and hope, stomach churning, head wondering what any of it meant, guts too ghostly to try and ask out loud.

 

But things had  _ seemed _ good between them, and getting better, and now, just in the corner of his eye, just on-the-edge looks, Bobby thinks maybe things are suddenly falling apart again. Pat and Sandy are on the other side of the kitchen, slicing salad, not speaking. Sandy takes half a step to the left, and Patrick takes a whole one. Their elbows brush and he jolts, and after a few minutes she comes over to slide over what she’s got to Bobby - he gives a pointed look over his shoulder and his eyes widen, but Sandy’s mouth just twists and she shrugs.  _ Your guess is as good as mine, he was fine this morning. _ Then she bumps Bobby’s shoulder and heads back, to keep on slicing and not talking.

 

And that is how the afternoon continues into evening, ‘til business time rolls into closing time, and clean up heads on to lock up.

 

Krabbe stops the trio while they’re packing up in the kitchen. He hurries, quick, short strides, to where Bobby is, and reaches up ham-hands to clap them on Bobby’s shoulders. He gives Bobby a nod, and a  _ well done, boy-o _ , and Bobby beams, smile so wide he feels like his cheeks might crack, his face could fall off and there’d be another grin, just as big underneath. Everything’s falling into place, he can  _ feel _ it, any second Krabbe is going to say,  _ you’ve got it, boy-o, you’ve got that spark, and you’re going to go far, and someday, you can have this whole place. Someday, it’s yours. _

 

Krabbe inhales, and his hands come away. He steps back, stuffs fists in pant pockets.

 

“Son,” he says. “It was a novel little idea.”

 

Bobby forgets to breathe. His smile falters, but he can’t make words.

 

“But...the  _ Krab _ ? She’s tried and true. It’s the classics that sell.” He takes a breath, and his eyes don’t meet Bobby’s, staring instead at his pointed red shoes, polished and new-penny-bright. “Son,” he says again. “It really  _ was _ a very...very novel idea.”

 

Bobby finds his voice. “What… what are you saying, Mister K?”

 

Krabbe clears his throat, and nods to himself. “S’just not a sustainable idea, lad. Wouldn’t work in the long run.”

 

Bobby’s insides go very, very cold. He feels nine years old, on a snow-day, when he and Patrick spent all day outside, and he’d ended up with two fistfuls of snow down the front of his shirt. It’s like that, but colder, because it’s not done in cheerful jest. It’s his boss telling him, stony and serious -  _ nice try, but nothing’s changed. _ It’s all of his hard work amounting to nothing more than a  _ novel idea _ , and it’s all of this being told while his boss won’t meet his eyes.

 

Krabbe coughs, and then hands Bobby the keys to the Krab. Bobby accepts them wordlessly, and Krabbe leaves, saying no more.

 

The team close up shop in a tense silence, one that stretches ‘til they pile into Pat’s car, a silence that keeps being pulled along, tauter and tauter as they leave the car, as they climb the stairs to the apartment, as they cross the threshold and all three stand, hovering by the door, no-one sure who’s to make the first move, who should scissor-snip the screaming elastic band that’s keeping everyone’s mouth shut.

 

Sandy’s always been the toughest of the trio, so of course, it’s her.

 

“That- that wasn’t fair of him, Bobby. You worked so hard - we can always try again--”

 

Bobby interrupts her. “It’s okay, Sandy,” he says, tersely. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

 

Sandy’s eyes narrow. “Doesn’t matter-are you  _ kiddin’ _ ? Of course it does! If it didn’t, your face wouldn’t be longer than a month’a Sundays right now.”

 

Patrick frowns, the action cutting a deep crease between his eyebrows. “If he said it doesn’t matter, Sandy, then it  _ doesn’t matter _ .”

 

Sandy whirls on Patrick. “Hey, butt out. I think I know when somebody’s just straight up  _ lyin’ _ about somethin’, so  _ excuse me _ for not believing it when he’s just sayin’ sour grapes, try’na mislead us.”

 

Patrick takes a deep breath. “Oh, you want to talk about  _ misleading _ , miss  _ kisses-someone-and-acts-like-it’s-nothing? _ ”

 

Sandy jerks, head snapping sharply back like she’s been slapped, and Bobby speaks up, this time. “Wait, what?” He looks between them, expression unreadable, wavering between two or three and not quite able to make up its mind. “Sandy- did you--?”

 

Patrick cuts her off before she can even  _ begin _ to explain. “I  _ saw _ you guys kissing. I  _ saw _ , and I would’ve--” his voice shakes, and he fights to keep it under control. “I knew even before. And-- and I would’ve  _ gotten out of the way _ , or whatever, I would’a- would’a just let you guys be together if that’s what you wanted-- it would’a  _ sucked _ but you know I’d have done it, but-- Bobby, you kissed me, and-and then Sandy,  _ you _ kissed me and- and--” 

 

He lets out a frustrated noise, a grumble or a whine all blended up together, and his fingers rake hard through his hair, sweat-split strands collapsing his hairstyle, eyes burning. 

 

“You’re just- some kinda- some kinda  _ floozy _ , or something, huh? You just- just wanna mess me up? Mess  _ him _ up?” He looks up at Sandy, who’s just stood standing still, her face red, her fists clenched tight as her jaw is. Hard, fit to crack.

 

“Floozy?” She says, her tone deadly. “Is  _ that _ what you think I am?” She takes a step toward him, slapping away Bobby’s hand as he tried to reach for her, tries to hold her back. Patrick glowers down at her.

 

The last of his ill-earned, fury-fuelled courage slipping away, he says,  _ yeah _ , and she nods, short and sharp, and slaps him hard across the face.

 

Then Sandy disappears, the door slamming shut behind her.

 

For a moment, everything is hideously, horribly quiet, the silence in the kitchen of the  _ Krab _ times ten, power twenty. 

 

Now - there sometimes comes a moment when someone says something so world-shattering that for a moment, you can’t breathe. Everything feels off kilter, like a rug pulled out from under your feet, or biting an apple and tasting meat. It’s all the breath knocked out of you and suddenly forgetting a word in your first language, or the only language you’ve ever known.

 

That’s what it feels like for one Patrick Starr, when Bobby Porter opens his mouth and says;

 

“How  _ could  _ you? You don’t even  _ get _ it, she wasn’t-- we’re both--  _ both _ of us, we just wanted-- and now she’s-- and  _ god _ , how could you be so stupid?”

 

Bobby opens his mouth, and he says,  _ How could you be so stupid? How could you be so stupid? How could you be so stupid _ \-- it echoes, ‘round and ‘round in the ringing, pin-drop silent space of the room.  _ How could you be so,  _ so  _ stupid? _

  
  
  


And this is the thing -- Patrick has always been able to count on  _ three  _ things. His ability to find the comfiest part of any couch, his keen sense of smell, and the assurance that no matter what, his best friend didn’t think he was an idiot. For who was it that gave him a thumbs up for every hard-earned C minus in school, who was it that always went to Pat  _ first _ asking for ideas, for a solution to a problem, no matter how dire? It was Bobby, best friend, and up until now, the only person who both  _ mattered _ \-- and had never,  _ ever _ , called him  _ stupid _ .

 

The words sink in and all the air that had been sucked out of the room explodes in Patrick’s lungs, and, red-faced, livid, he clenches meaty fists and dark eyes get darker and he chokes, watery, on what he says back.

 

“Fine.  _ Fine _ . If- If I’m so  _ stupid _ , then I’ll  _ go _ .”

 

It feels like he’s going to die right there, like his heart’s going to burst, like he’s stood on stage and he’s forgotten all of his lines and everyone can see, because he’s laid so bare, and everyone’s laughing -- this moment feels like a room of people laughing, even though there’s no-one laughing, just Patrick, a scoff, when Bobby starts, eyes all wide, a  _ wait, I’m sorry, _ on his lips but Patrick’s already halfway out the door, spitting an icy  _ whatever _ back over his shoulder, and forcing himself not to look.

 

He makes it down the hallway, and Sandy’s already long gone, no dark curls or white lace in sight. His footsteps are fast, thundering across to the landing, and down both flights of stairs, right out into the slight chill of the evening before he breaks down, a huge mountain crumbling into gravel on the sidewalk.

 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ . That’s what he always is, always has been, always will be. And it had been fine, he could have lived with it forever, knowing everyone thought so, just as long as he still had Bobby to count on, that one last person who made him believe he wasn’t as much of a moron as everyone thought. But now that little lifeline’s been snapped off, brittle splinters of it still stuck in Patrick’s heart, digging in, a fractured echo of his best friend’s voice.

 

_ God _ , _ nothing’s hurt like this before,  _ he thinks, remembering every  _ stupid, _ every  _ idiot _ , every  _ moron _ and  _ numbskull _ and  _ know-nothing _ . From that earliest point, the first thing he can remember, all of that, and being fat and dumb and miserable ‘til that one day when another kid stood up for him and then sat down with him and soon enough called him friend, soon enough called him  _ best _ friend.

 

And it feels like such a ridiculous thing to cry over, for a man, not a boy, because they  _ have _ to stop pretending they’re still kids sometime -- but even were he older still, he’d still want to weep for the...betrayal of it all. He weeps for losing something he could count on, for forever now having to call that top three a measly  _ top  _ two _ things I can count on _ .

 

\--

 

Back upstairs, Bobby stands in the wake of what he’s done, frozen to the spot, with all the ocean trying to leave his body through his eyes. He couldn’t build a dam if he tried, because in just a few short words he’d destroyed something that mattered more to him than anything else in the world. Because he knows, see, he  _ knows _ , that  _ stupid _ is what Patrick’s parents called him. _ Stupid _ is what two people called the son they didn’t want, two people who didn’t care not to show it, either. Stupid’s what they called him, their  _ son _ , when he couldn’t solve  _ their _ problems. Stupid’s what they said when he’d stand silent, not knowing what to say not to make them mad. Stupid’s what they made him believe he was, and,  _ god _ , Bobby’s not one to hate, or hold a grudge, but he feels nothing but cold anger when he thinks about Patrick’s parents.

 

And so he’d always,  _ always _ done his best to try and fix it. And when they were kids, and he’d hear  _ stupid  _ from someone who didn’t know any better _ ,  _ he’d say  _ no _ , and he’d prove it, show them just how smart his best friend was. And Patrick would be quiet, quiet with his mouth but loud, loud gratitude in his eyes. And Bobby had never broken it, not once, not in seventeen years, not since he made up his mind never, ever, to make his best friend feel stupid. Not in seventeen years, four months, two weeks, three days, eight hours, four minutes…

 

But now the watch has found it’s stop, and Bobby can’t ever, ever reset his mistake.

 

Shaking hands lift to cover a mouth he hadn’t realised had been sobbing, and knees ache from where he’d dropped to them.

  
_ I’m so, so stupid _ , he thinks.

 

\---

 

END OF ACT 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. now we realise that all THREE members of the trio have made some pretty dire mistakes -- a LOT of which could be solved if they could work up the nerve to talk to each other. i know it's taking SO, SO long to get to that, but i promise. by next chapter, bridges are going to start to be mended. and, so, if you're still reading this fic, thank you so much for sticking with me! i know it's been a bumpy ride -- this here is where the bumps are at their bumpiest. blue skies and sunshine on the other side, don't worry.
> 
> also, somewhat unrelated, but if you write patbob or spandy ship fics, you should totally chuck them my way.


	11. ACT 3, PART 1: old man jenkins.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> welcome back, friends!!! so we begin the final act, the official title of which is 'stars out of five' - in reference to the reviews bobby's going to be getting from last work week. i...forgot that was what i titled the act, so you'll have to bear with me, but the chapter title should make sense by the end. also, the POV flip-flops between characters a lot during this, so i hope it all makes some degree of sense.

The thing about living in the same town you grew up in is that places have memories in them, all around them, so when you walk through those places, it’s like hitting a replay button, and never so vivid as they are when you’re hurting.

 

Patrick finds himself at the park, many a day between the ages of eight and thirteen passed on the swingset, and a rolodex of coloured memories flashes, flipbook-style through Pat’s mind, but the brightest ones are blue, thinking of every time he couldn’t push himself off the ground because all he could think of was the weight of ‘stupid’ on his back, and his shoulders, and his head.

 

Back then there’d always be a buddy, trusted pal, on the swing by his side, rolling gently forward and back with his ankles, talking in a sunshine-yellow voice that swore someday things would be a bit brighter, that maybe people would be kinder, sweeter.

 

It’s just that now- now the sunshine-yellow voice is yellow like a coward, hollow, a liar all along. And Pat had just gone along and believed it, and look where it’s gotten him.

 

He knows sooner or later someone’s going to find him here, Bobby knows all of Pat’s patterns and every trick, if he stays here wallowing the person he wants to see _least_ in the world right now will surely find him.

 

\---

 

message to: **S [sunflower emoji]**

 **B [pineapple emoji]:** please come back to the apartment  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** pat left just after u and  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** idk what to do

  
**B [pineapple emoji]:** sandy???

 

 **B [pineapple emoji]:** please answer me

 

\---

 

message to: **pea to my pod**

 **  
****french to my fry:** pat im so so sorry  
**french to my fry:** i didnt mean it of course i didnt mean it i wasnt thinking  
**french to my fry:** im the stupid one i never should have said that you KNOW i dont mean it i could never never never mean that  
**french to my fry:** please please come back home.

 

\---

 

He banks on what he knows - by now Bobby’s probably looking for him, so it stands to reason he won't be home. Patrick takes that chance, and doubles back to the apartment - for the car, glad he didn't set the keys down earlier.

 

Nobody stops him, and the complex is quiet. He doesn't turn on the radio, and no mix would do for what he’s feeling. The pink not-Cadillac pulls its sputtering way out of the driveway and out onto the road. The sun’s setting, giving everything a poetic glow, bathing everything red, red as Patrick's eyes have gotten. And he blinks back tears that would redden further as he drives, and drives, and drives.

 

\---

 

He pulls up to Mister and Mrs Porter’s house just as the sun gives up the gun and turns in for the night. It’s not as if he’d really been aiming for it, but it seems the heart knows better than the head when it comes to matters like this.

 

Besides, it isn’t like he can just go to his _own_ parents.

 

“Patrick!” says Mrs Porter, taken aback. She studies the young man at her doorstep for the briefest of moments before stretching herself up to full height and then further, reaching her arms up to pull Pat down to her, squeezing tight, a hand rubbing his back. All six-foot-something of him sags at the knees, and, chest suddenly heaving with sobs all over again, he hugs his almost-mother back, and that is how they stay until Mr Porter appears, wondering what’s keeping his wife from their nightly scrabble game.

 

“Patrick?” He says, cautious, looking from Patrick to his wife and back again. “Is everything alright, son?” A flash of fear crosses his face. “Is it Bobby?”

 

Patrick pulls away from Mrs Porter, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. He clears his throat, straightens up.

 

“Uh- n-no. No, Bobby’s just fine, Mister P. It’s me that’s got the-- It’s me that’s _the problem_.” He sighs, beat-down and spirit drowning. “And I- I just didn’t know where to go, is all.”

 

Mr Porter’s expression melts into one of understanding, and he takes a step forward, hand guiding Patrick into the house by the elbow.

 

“I think this was the right place then, kiddo.” A smile spreads across his face, stretching the whiskers of his well-cared for moustache. “Come on, I’m losing at scrabble in here. Let’s get inside, and you can join my team.”

 

\---

 

Bobby spends the night alone, in an empty bed, with his heart empty of joy and his stomach full of fear and dread and uncertainty, and, really, just about every negative thing it’s possible for a person to feel at one time. For last night’s search around town had yielded no Patricks, and Sandy hadn’t answered any of his texts - or her door, when, at just shy of eleven, he’d come knocking, hoping to goodness she’d appear. She hadn’t, but his gut had told him  - _she’s in there, she’s not hearing on purpose_.

 

So he’d turned away, turned back for home, dreading spending the night alone. But spend it he does, and when morning rolls around, it’s still just him, and the apartment feels still and strange, ghosts of last night hovering around the front door, reminding Bobby over and over about how cowardly he’d been, and the awful thing he’d said.

 

 _He won’t ever forgive me_ , Bobby thinks. _He trusted me, and I broke that. I called him stupid._ Stupid _, I called him stupid._

 

_If he doesn’t ever forgive me, I deserve it._

 

“Deserve _what_ , exactly?” someone says, suddenly, and Bobby sits up to find that Sandy’s standing right there. Right in front of him, and looking, honestly - almost as bad as Bobby himself feels. Her eyes are dark with makeup only half-removed, an old college karate club tee and sweats in the place of her usual country-chic getup. She’s only got one earring in. He points it out, and she huffily removes it, stuffing it down her bra and never breaking in her flat glare.

 

“Deserve _what_ , Bobby?” she asks again. Bobby sighs, rolling himself over in his bed and pulling the covers over his head.

 

“Nothing, it doesn’t matter,” he replies, muffled. Then, after a pause. “Patrick’s never going to forgive me, so what does _anything_ matter?”

 

He feels the bed dip suddenly, and after a moment’s silence, Sandy tears the blankets back. Bobby yelps, taken by surprise, and does his best to glare back - an attempt that withers away when she grabs him by the chin and leans in close, expression dark.

 

“That’s a real crock ‘n’ you know it, Porter. He’s your best friend, no matter what. I ain’t sayin’ what you did wasn’t wrong, ‘cause it was but-” She sighs, and lets go of his face. He rubs his jaw and she sits back, expression softening. “-but we _all_ did stuff we regret. And now we gotta make things right. Right?”

 

Bobby makes to lie back down, but Sandy grabs the front of his tee and holds him there. “ _Right?”_ she repeats. Bobby rolls his eyes, petulant, but he nods.

 

“Good. Have you spoken to him since last night, did he come home?”

 

Bobby shakes his head. “No, no, he didn’t. I looked- I looked all over last night, went everywhere I could while the buses were still running but he just...wasn’t anywhere. None of the places he’d usually be. And he took the car, must’ve come back some time while I was out and just...I don’t _know_ , maybe he skipped town.”

 

Sandy leans back, thoughtful. Her fingers loosen on Bobby’s shirt, but when he starts to try and sag back against the bed she pulls him up again. “So… if he _was_ gonna skip town, where d’you think he’d go?”

 

Bobby’s brows pinch together, thoughtful. “Well it’s not like he’s really got any family nearby, definitely no-one he’s close to. _Unless-_ Sandy.” He sits up properly, grabs her hand, the one still fisted in his tee. “I’ve got it, I think I know where he is.”

 

\---

 

Patrick wakes up staring at the living room ceiling in Mr and Mrs Porter’s house. It’s a sort of egg-shell off-white, and there's the faintest crack running a ways along at the far end of the room. You wouldn’t notice if you weren’t looking for it, but Pat’s been awake since before the sun had risen, and rather than get himself up and risk waking the middle-aged couple upstairs, he’d committed himself to memorising his immediate surroundings. Or at least everything above eye-level - he pointedly avoids looking at the photos on the mantlepiece, or the walls, or _any_ of that. Right now, one Patrick Starr wants nothing to do with either of those boys in the pictures. _Especially_ not the shorter one.

 

“Patrick, honey?” there’s a knock, and Mrs Porter leans herself through the door, one hand gripping the doorframe, the other holding a steaming mug of coffee. Patrick sits up quickly, raking thick fingers through his hair in an attempt to make himself a little more presentable, and hurrying to throw the blanket back over his legs, aware that his jeans are still on the floor. Mrs Porter laughs, a high little giggle, and she steps into the room.

 

“Nothing I haven’t seen before, sweetheart. Scoot over.”

 

Patrick obliges, allowing Mrs Porter to sit herself down next to him and push the mug into his hands, careful not to spill any. It’s a tacky sea turtle mug in turquoise ceramic, something Pat’s pretty sure he’s not seen since he and Bobby were in their early teens. It’s such a vivid throwback he almost drops it.

 

“Thanks, Mrs P,” Patrick says, voice quiet.

 

“We don’t have to talk, honey, but if you _do_ wanna tell someone what happened last night, I got a pair of ears right here ready for the listening.” She pointedly tucks her hair behind her ears and wiggles her shoulders, a very Bobby-like grin crossing her face. Bobby doesn’t look much like either of his parents on first glance - two brown-haired parents made a strawberry-blond kid, but Bobby shares his mother’s eyes, and her gap-toothed grin. And _boy_ , even in such a state, Pat _still_ finds himself a complete sucker for that smile.

 

He sighs, and he takes a sip of his coffee, and then he tells her, and he tells her all of it.

 

\---

Bobby really hates the thought of leaving the house in his pajamas, but as soon as he tells Sandy that he’s fairly certain Patrick’s gone to his parents’ house, she’s dragged him out of the house without even giving him time to put shoes on. Now he’s sitting in the passenger seat of Sandy’s van in a miserable t-shirt, shorts and socks, hugging himself and regretting telling her anything. It’s so easy to let himself get swept up in what Sandy says, or what Sandy does, hardly getting a chance to get a word or a thought in edgeways.

 

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Sandy.” He says, after they’ve been driving in silence for a near-unbearable ten minutes.

 

“Oh yeah, and why’s that?” she snaps, not taking her eyes off the road.

 

“If he left -- it’s gotta be for a reason. He doesn’t _want_ to see us. He doesn’t want us to talk to him, or come find him, or any of that. If he wants to come back -- he’d come back on his own.”

 

Sandy scoffs, and Bobby winces. “Sandy-- I’m _serious._ We shouldn’t--”

 

“Well what if _I_ need this? Okay?” She says, voice wavering. “This is somethin’ _I_ gotta do. If he doesn’t _wanna_ listen, that’s on him, but what he said to me-- that wasn’t fair. And _I_ need to tell him that.”

 

“So, what,” Bobby says, eyes wide, “you’re just going over to _fight_ with him some more?”

 

The van suddenly swerves, pulls off-road and comes to a screeching halt.

 

“ _No_ !” Sandy shouts. “No, no of _course_ not.” She groans, and her head falls down onto the steering wheel, pressing her brow hard to the rim. Her shoulders shake. “I just...I just don’t want any of this to keep falling apart. I thought- I thought I had everything under control. I thought I could just...get what I _wanted_ from you guys, I didn’t even think- I didn’t even think--” she heaves a shuddering breath. “Why didn’t I _think,_ Bobby?”

 

Tears splash onto her sweats, dark spots appearing on her knees.

 

“I- I _always_ think. I’m always thinkin’-- about my projects, about this town, about my home, about everythin’-- but I didn’t, not this time. When it mattered most and I should’a _thought_ about you guys ‘steada just acting.” A choked, wet sob. “I thought-- I thought I could just...fit _in_ . I didn’t think I’d be messing anything _up_ , not between you guys. You and Patrick - you’re closer to each other than I ever thought people even _could_ be. You seemed so stable, and I-- I wanted that. Or, to be _part_ of that or _something_ and _god_ , was I ever _stupid_ , thinkin’ I could just...step in with y’all like it was nothin’, like we wouldn’t have to talk about it.”

 

She lifts her head, and turns devastatingly tearful eyes to Bobby. “Why- why didn’t we ever just _talk_ about it?”

 

Bobby slumps back in the shotgun seat, his own eyes prickling with tears. “I- I don’t know. I don’t even _know_.”

 

\---

 

“...anyway. That’s what- that’s what happened, Mrs P.” Patrick’s not talking to her anymore, and most of his speech is directed at the floor between his knees. His head is in his hands, and it’s getting to be a struggle to keep his voice under control, his breathing even.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Mrs Porter says. “I’m so sorry. That’s…”

 

Patrick snorts. “A lot?”

 

Mrs Porter hums. “Mm. Sure is a lot.”

 

Patrick’s coffee’s gone cold, but he drains the last of it anyway, grimacing. Mrs Porter watches him, wincing sympathetically. They sit together in semi-awkward silence for a few moments, before Mrs Porter slaps her knees and stands herself up.

 

“You know what, I think it’s pancakes time. I have _such_ a craving for some blueberry-banana, with butter and maple syrup. Maybe some bacon on the side. What do you say, kiddo?”

 

Patrick’s mouth quirks a half-hearted smile, but he nods.

 

“Then I’ll see you in the kitchen.” She bends down, picks up Pat’s jeans, tosses them at him, and straightens back up. “Be there in five, you’re on egg-cracking duty.”

 

\---

 

Mr Porter shuffles into the kitchen about a quarter of an hour later, glasses hanging crooked on his face and a _Reader’s Digest_ in his hand. He nods blearily at Patrick, fixes himself a glass of orange juice, and allows himself to be moved out of the way when his wife needs to get another bowl from the cupboard.

 

“It’s good to have you ‘round here again, son,” Mr Porter says, ducking as Mrs Porter leans up to grab something. “When it’s just us, Mom here only ever makes Bran Flakes for breakfast. I haven't had pancakes since last Thanksgiving!”

 

Mrs Porter whirls on him, brandishing her spatula. “And _who_ says you're getting any? Me and Patrick are doing all the work here. I’ve got a good mind to cut you right out of it!”

 

Mr Porter looks aghast, holding a hand to his chest. “No, honey, no! I’ll do anything! Let me at that frying pan, I can pull my weight!”

 

“Oh no you don't,” Mrs Porter laughs, bumping him away with her hip. “I remember the last time you tried flipping pancakes, we had to call in the fire brigade to get them off the ceiling. No, sweet husband, you're on cleaning duty. Washing _and_ drying.”

 

Mr Porter pouts, but accedes. Mrs Porter laughs, and grabs him by the chin, pulling him down for a quick peck on the lips before shoving him out of the way again. Patrick watches the little melodrama unfold, heart aching just a little.

 

 _This is what love’s meant to look like_. And Bobby’s parents make it look so damn easy.

 

\---

 

Mother, father, and sort-of-adopted-son are about three-quarters done with breakfast when there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Oh, I wonder who that could be?” Mrs Porter says, already halfway out of her seat.

 

“It could be Julianne, from next door,” says Mr Porter. “She borrowed that pie dish last week, she might be giving it back.”

 

Mrs Porter nods vaguely. “Yes, probably Julianne. Or Allan, she makes him do almost _everything_ …”

 

Turns out it isn't Julianne, and it isn't Allan, either. Mrs Porter speaks to the mystery person for a while, and then leads Sandy into the kitchen. Patrick stares at her, dumbfounded, and Mr and Mrs Porter hurriedly excuse themselves.

 

“Hi.” Sandy says, after an extended pause where they do nothing but stare at each other. Patrick gives her a lackluster _hey_ in response, and pointedly scrapes his fork across his plate to grab at that last bit of pancake. Sandy grimaces, and pulls up the chair opposite him, but she doesn't say anything. Patrick figures if he keeps making metal-against-ceramic screeching she might just get up and leave, but she doesn't.

 

“Why are you _here_ , Sandy?” He asks, fork dropping to the table with an irritable clatter.

 

“Funny, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

 

Patrick glares, and Sandy glares back.

 

“I just wanted to talk to ya,” she says. “I don't like the way we left things, last night, and me runnin’ away didn't help anythin’. Seems like you did the same thing and made it worse, even.”

 

Patrick _wants_ to keep glowering, but the effort it’s taking to frown’s starting to feel like it’s not worth it.

 

“So you talked to Bobby, huh?”

 

“Yeah. And you didn't.”

 

Patrick sighs. There's a ton of unanswered texts on his phone, all of which have been seen, and ignored.

 

“Is that what you came here for? To do his talking for him? Save it, Sandy, I don't care what he’s got to--”

 

“No,” Sandy cuts him off, sharply. Her hand shoots out, grabbing his arm. He tries to jerk away, but her grip’s strong. Patrick knows she’s strong, but she rarely uses her strength on him, save to punch his arm when he says something obtuse. She holds him there, and he’s forced to sit, to listen. “I’m here right now because _I_ wanna talk to you. _Me_.”

 

Her eyes search his, dark and full of serious intent and maybe shining just a little with tears - but that could just be the light.

 

He lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, and says, _sure. Okay. Then talk._

 

\---

 

Bobby had _not_ wanted to be left outside, but Sandy had said, most _emphatically,_ that she wanted to talk to Patrick alone. Then she’d kicked open the door on her side, made a point to crack the windows, just so Bobby would stop complaining about being left in the van. He’d thought _that_ was a particularly patronising thing to do, but pulled off so well that he’d have laughed if he wasn't still so utterly miserable.

 

And now he feels weirdly like some kind of CIA guy surveilling his own parents’ house. He can't _see_ anything inside, of course, but it kind of strings to think that both his parents and his two best friends (but does he still have claim to that title, right now?) are all in there, and he's been left in Sandy’s van like a neglected dog.

 

Glumly, he starts to leaf through the assortment of papers scattered across her dashboard, road maps and pieces of torn note paper, scribbled all over with scientific looking notes, words Bobby's not got half a hope of understanding. There's a little photobooth strip under the flip-shade, just sticking out and Bobby takes it down for a better look. It’s Sandy, dressed in the pink-and-blue flower cowboy shirt she favours, posing cheek-to-cheek with a young man. He’s got the same dark curly hair, brown eyes, wide smile and complexion as Sandy, and he’s dressed in a similar floral cowboy shirt - though in red, rather than pink. Sandy doesn't talk about him much, but Bobby’s heard enough about her twin brother. His name is Randall, but the siblings opted for rhyming nicknames somewhere along the way, and everyone calls him Randy. All Bobby really knows is that he still lives back ‘home’, in Texas, and his chosen martial art is the rodeo, rather than karate.

 

This is the first photo Bobby’s seen of him. And in the house he’s parked outside, Sandy’s meeting his parents for the first time.

 

He’s shown her tons of pictures of them, though.

 

\---

 

“What you said to me-- that _hurt,_ Patrick. I’m lots’a things but I ain’t never been called a _floozy_ .” Her brows are pinched together, and her hand on his arm squeezes tight. “Maybe- maybe I deserved it, the way I was acting… I didn't let you- _either_ of you know what I was really thinking, feeling. Y’all ain't mind readers, and I was getting in the way when all the while I was telling myself it was going okay. See- this is the thing. I- I-”

 

She falters, and her hand goes slack.

 

“You're in love with Bobby.”

 

Patrick doesn't say anything, but a look and a fraction of a nod’s all Sandy needs to get her answer.

 

“And he’s in love with you too.” Breathe, breathe. “And I’m in love with him- I _think._ I think. It hasn't been as long as with the two of you, and it probably ain't quite the same way, but...I _know_ I love him.”

 

_Breathe._

 

“And- and I ain't in love with you.” Out of the corner of her eye, Sandy can see Patrick flinch, and she's quick to keep talking. “ _But_ . But I think I could be. I know I sure as heck _like_ you, Patrick Starr, I just ain’t sure quite when it happened.”

 

He still doesn't say anything, so she presses on.

 

“I know I _like_ you a whole lot. In that kissin’, dancin’ out on the town kinda way. The way where I think your tacky shirts are charmin’, and even when you’re bein’ an idiot-- I wanna _laugh_ now, when I used to just get annoyed. Maybe it was just...seein’ how much you love Bobby, maybe that was what made me realise you ain’t as dumb as you act.”

 

Patrick scoffs, and Sandy finally lets go of his arm properly. She leans back in the dining room chair she’s sitting in and blinks, hard.

 

“Anyway. That’s- that’s what I wanted to say to ya. I’m _not_ happy with what you said to me, but I’m sorry for runnin’ away, and for not bein’ clearer about...what I wanted from y’all. You _and_ Bobby.”

 

“I’m sorry too,” Patrick says, stopping her as she starts to get up from her chair. “I- I didn’t mean it. What I said. I...get it now. I’m sorry.”

 

Sandy stands, but she smiles, too.

  
“I forgive you.”

 

Patrick stands too. “I forgive _you_.”

 

Sandy’s smile widens, eyes crinkling, and she throws her arms wide, wrapping herself around Patrick as far as she can reach. He jolts, surprised, but returns her hug quickly, squeezing tight and lifting her up, _hey, no worries_. When he sets her down she giggles breathlessly, and then her expression changes in a snap, a lightbulb clicking on in her brain.

 

“Oh! I plum forgot about him- Bobby’s outside, he’s waitin’ in my car. I’ll go get him, he’s probably--”

 

Patrick’s change in expression Sandy stops in her tracks.

 

\---

 

He’d set his phone on the dashboard when Sandy had kidnapped him, and half-forgotten about it in his glum mood, but when it suddenly, loudly vibrates, Bobby snaps into action, snatching it up, glad for the distraction from the real world.

 

There’s a new notification, a post tagging the _Krab’s_ account (the one that only he and Pearl ever log into) that starts Bobby’s heart racing, at least until he opens it. It’s from Mr Jenkins, one of the _Krab’s_ regulars. He’s an ancient man, practically falling apart at the seams, but he’s one of town’s most avid tweeters.

 

 

Bobby’s first thought, is, _ew_ , _too much information, Mister Jenkins._ Then, he watches as Jenkins’ online popularity leads to little replies blinking in, and Bobby remembers that Jenkins was one of the customers who’d ordered the special yesterday. And as he sits there in Sandy’s shotgun seat, hunched over his phone, he watches as more elderly Bikini Bottom citizens reply, and start, inexplicably, to praise last week’s specials with vigour. One of them tries to tag him, but they mistype his handle - Bobby’s flattered all the same.

 

\---

 

“...so I don't-- I _don't_ want to talk to him.”

 

Sandy’s mouth twists. She nods, but the question - _ever?_ \- is half on her lips when Patrick shakes his head.

 

“Just -- please? I-- I’ll be back, I promise. I’ll come back, and we’ll talk. Mister and Missus P, they're nice and all, but they won’t let me stay here forever. I’ll… I’ll come back--”

 

“When you're ready.” Sandy pats his shoulder. “Okay. Then I won't push it. But if you don't feel like you can go back to your apartment yet…” she hesitates. “You know where I live.”

 

Patrick raises his eyebrows.

 

“You couldn't stay _there_ forever, either,” she says quickly, stepping back, “but for a little while. Offer's there.”

 

\---

 

Sandy comes back to the van, alone. Bobby sighs - he'd figured she would, but it still kind of stings.

 

“Hey,” he says, as Sandy slides back into her seat and starts the engine. “How...how did it go?”

 

She lets out a long breath, and when she turns to him, she smiles. It's not a full bright beam, but its soft, and so pretty, so her.

 

“It went okay. Better than I expected, I think. He’ll uh… Patrick just needs some time, Bobby. But he promised me he’d come back home.”

 

Bobby breathes in, all shaky. When he speaks, he sounds small, beat-down.

 

“Did he say...did he say when?”

 

Sandy reaches forward, her hand on his.

 

“He didn't, sweet pea.” He makes a noise, a strangled, weird little sound of distress that makes Sandy's hand tighten around his. “He didn't, but he _did_ say he was coming.”

 

“But he didn't wanna see _me_.”

 

Sandy shakes her head. “No, he didn't.”

 

Bobby sighs, and retracts his hand, pulling out of her grip.

 

“Okay. Okay. I...I understand.” He leans back in his seat, thumbs idly tapping at the screen of his phone. “Can we just...just go home now?”

 

Sandy nods, but Bobby only sees it out of the corner of his eye.

 

“Sure. Let’s go.”

 

\---

 

Halfway into the quiet-but-not-uneasy drive back home, Bobby gets a screenshot of the same set of tweets he was looking at earlier, from Pearl.

 

For the first time all day, he forgets about Patrick, and Sandy, and any of it, everything that’s going on and going wrong and yet to go right about them. Because Pearl sends him a string of excited messages and emojis, and, most importantly, promises to pass all the praise and everything she can onto her father.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you have it! we're on our way now, folks. i think. anyway, i want you all to know that while i try not to describe them /too/ much, since its rarely necessary, i want you to know i very much absolutely had jill talley and tom kenny in mind when i think about how bobby's parents look. i sure didn't, when i first wrote them, but then opening night of the spongemusical happened and i saw photos of ethan with mister kenny together: [https://tinyurl.com/y9o5kamt] and i was like ahh. like father like son.


	12. ACT 3, PART 2: a column in the chronicle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> part two of act three! we're getting into some more CONVERSATIONS between characters! if you like pearl, she is in this one. if you like edward, he is also in this one. this is a chapter that features all three principle players.

It’s the first day off in months that Bobby’s had to spend alone. If he thinks back hard enough, he remembers that Pat had had an out-of-town gig, and Sandy had been at a lecture in another state. He’d spent the weekend playing video games, cat curled up by his side, Patrick’s pink video game controller - just a little sticky from sugary treats - in his hands. Gary had licked that stick off his palms, and they’d stayed together on the couch right until Pat had come home.

 

Holding the controller had been as close as he could get to holding his friend’s hand while he was away. In the now Bobby finds himself clutching it yet again, thumbs working the joysticks to no real victory in the cartoon go-kart race blinking bright blue-yellow-green lights at his face.

 

There’s a knock at the door just as he pulls in last against five computer-generated cartoon racers. Gary meows in protest as he’s forced off of Bobby’s lap, and Bobby wonders all the while who it could be calling on him.

  
  


The door swings open just as Pearl lifts her fist to start hammering on its surface once again.

 

“Pearl!” Bobby’s eyes and mouth go wide with shock. “What are you...doing here?” He’s pretty sure he’s never actually given her his address.

 

“I got some good news,” she says, hip-checking him out of the way and striding into his apartment. One wide-sweep look at the living room and her expression twists into one of mild disgust. “Woah. I thought you were like, some kinda total neat-freak. Why’s it look like a hurricane hit in here?”

 

Bobby shrugs, sheepishly, and, taking in his scruffy, weary, only-half-dressed appearance, Pearl’s face takes on a more politely sympathetic look.

 

“Did something like...happen?” She asks. Bobby nods, shutting the front door and then pitching forward, face-down onto the sofa.

 

“Yeah,” he says, muffled into the couch cushions. “Something happened.”

 

Pearl hesitates for a moment, before picking up his legs, twisting his body so she can sit on the couch, and then she holds out her phone.

 

“So I showed daddy all these tweets,” she says, cutting right to the business part of the conversation, “and I also showed him _this._ You know that guy from the local news channel?”

 

Bobby’s head lifts a fraction.

 

“Uh...that Perkins guy?”

 

“Yeah, like, Perry or Perez or something. The one _way_ too into stripes. _Anyway_ , like, he totally wrote an article about you. _Look_!”

 

She shoves the phone at his face and Bobby takes it, slipping fully off the sofa and holding Pearl’s phone at a safe distance so as not to entirely burn his retinas out.

 

 

> **_THE BIKINI BOTTOM CHRONICLE_ **
> 
>  
> 
> **_Mystery Menu Delights Down At Ye Olde Krusty Krabbe!_ ** _  
>  _ _By Percy Perkins._
> 
>  
> 
> _Whether you’ve lived here for years of you’re just passing through, most everyone knows of Eugene Krabbe’s pirate themed restaurant, ‘Ye Olde Krusty Krabbe’, decked out in 18th century buccaneer dive bar glory located in Downtown Bikini Bottom. It’s the only non-chain eatery around, and the only place in the world when you can get one of Captain Krabbe’s famed ‘Krabby Patties’, the burgers we just can’t get enough of._
> 
> _Frying up these delicious burgers is the one-man kitchen crew, Bobby Porter, who works tirelessly Tuesday through Saturday to produce the staple dinner deal of the diner. However, beginning this past week, Porter himself has introduced his own twist on the menu - a limited edition specials menu, featuring a new featured sandwich each working day! Beginning with an onion-ring stuffed ‘Crispy Barnacle Burger’ and taking us through the doughnuts-for-buns savoury confection that was the ‘Pretty Princess Burger’ right the way to his final creation, the epitome of ‘shouldn’t work but strangely does’, something he’s dubbed the ‘Split Sea Burger’, a two-in-one affair that left this particular reporter’s mouth watering despite the odd premise - acorns AND apricots? In a burger? Say it isn’t so! And yet folks, it is very much so._
> 
> _Who knows if Chef Porter will surprise us with experimental specials again in the future? Only time will tell, but we can only hope that the answer is yes, and soon._

 

He reads the little article once, twice, and again for good measure before he hands Pearl’s phone back. He definitely hadn’t expected to get anything about his specials week in the paper, digital-version or not, but he supposes maybe he’d subconsciously sort of hoped for it. And written by the town’s journalistic golden boy,no less.

 

“Well?” Pearl says, eyebrows raised, clearly expecting more of a jubilant reaction.

 

“Well…” Bobby sits himself up properly, nodding slowly. “Well, that’s...awesome? Isn’t it?” A pause. “What did Mister K say, though?”

 

“He said, _Pearly, you know I can’t read anything on those newfangled smart telly-phones of yours,_ ” she says, in her best gruff sailor voice. “So, like, I pulled it up on the _computer_ instead, for like, the large print, y’know? And-- and after he read it he was all - _well, blow me down. Maybe I was too quick to turn the lad off the idea._ ”

 

Bobby nods, eager. “And then…?”

 

Pearl deflates a little. “Well...that was kinda it.” Bobby’s shoulders droop. “But!” Pearl says. “That’s totally more than I was expecting. After he came home on friday all crabby about _expenses_ or whatever I seriously doubted he was going to change his mind.”

 

“But he... _hasn’t_ changed his mind, has he?”

 

“Maybe not _yet_ ,” she drops a manicured hand onto his shoulder, “but he still _might_ . I’ve still gotta go through everybody’s instagrams, I just _know_ all the regulars won’t be holding out on us, and- and I gotta check the _Krab’s_ website for any new reviews but-- _Bobby_ .” She gives him with a serious look. “This is _so_ not over.”

 

Bobby sits back, stunned.

 

“Wait, wait… why are you doing all this?” He asks. “I thought you didn’t even really care about your dad’s restaurant.” Pearl stares at him with an incredulous expression, all the more emphasised by her false lashes.

 

“I’m doing this because I care about _you_ . Because you’re my friend,” she says, enunciating everything clearly, as if she were saying something incredibly obvious to someone incredibly dim. “Because _you_ always help _me_ out.” Then her face brightens up, and her shoulders wiggle as she sits back, thumbs already scrolling for social media on her phone. “I’m just, like, paying it forward, or whatever.”

 

Bobby breathes out, the sound a rushed _whoosh_ , shock and half a decade’s worth of affection. Pearl notices him about to get teary or soppy, so she holds up a hand and instructs him to get himself up, and dressed, so they can get going.

 

\---

 

Bobby gets dressed, and, upon seeing the outfit he’s chosen, Pearl, setting Gary down, grimaces and shakes her head.

 

“Why do you look so _depressed suburban dad_ right now?” She asks. “I mean, I know all white guys ever are all about blue plaid and grey hoodies but this is like... _the_ most boring I’ve ever seen you.”

 

 _Funny how you appreciate somebody’s tacky cheeseburger sweaters only when they stop wearing them,_ she thinks.

 

Bobby just shrugs glumly, eyes fixed firmly on the floor. Pearl rolls her eyes.

 

“Okay, like, we’re gonna get nowhere with my daddy today if you're acting like this. What happened yesterday? Did he say something? Was it bad? And like, where did you find a grey anything?”

 

Bobby’s fingers pull the zipper on the hoodie up, then down, then up again, his eyes still downcast. “It’s Sandy's.”

 

Pearl frowns. “Did _she_ do something?”

 

“Can we not talk about this?”

 

“Nuh-uh, I’m not gonna help you with winning over daddy ‘til you spill.”

 

“Pearl, I’m serious.”

 

“Nuh- _uh_ , _I’m_ the one that's serious.” She takes a meaningful step toward him. “So if you don't start--”

 

“It got messed up, Pearl, okay!?” Bobby says, cutting her off. “I- it all happened so fast, me and Pat, and Sandy, suddenly we were all just fighting and then-- they left. They left and I-- it all got so messed up.”

 

He collapses back onto the couch and doubles over, head in his hands. Pearl stands stock-still and totally unsure of what to do here - the _act_ of crying, she’s familiar with. Dealing with someone _else_ crying? That’s a whole other department store. Hesitantly, she sits back down next to him.

 

“You guys...had a fight?”

 

Bobby nods, makes a muffled _mm-hmm_ sound into his hands.

 

“Was it because...was it because you told them what I told you to tell them? About polyamory? Because like, if that was it, I am _so_ super sorry for trying to intervene or whatever, I just thought--”

 

“No, no,” Bobby says, sitting up and grabbing her hands. “Of course not. Actually I… I never even managed to get that out there. It was something else- kind of. Or...maybe it wasn’t. Maybe…”

 

He sighs. “Pat and Sandy, they… They had a fight. And then- I made it worse. I didn’t defend Sandy so she ran out, and then I got mad at _Pat_ and then _he_ ran out. I said stupid, _stupid_ stuff, and-- and-- I lost my dreams for the _Krab_ and both my best friends all in one night.”

 

Pearl lets out a whistle, long and low.

 

“Okay. That does sound kinda bad.”

 

\---

 

Sandy wakes up to the last three texts from her brother still glowing on the screen of her phone. She’d fallen asleep before their conversation had really finished, so the first thing she reads is _hey, u still there?_ and then _sis???_ and then _i’m guessing youre probably asleep so gnite and im sure it aint as bad as all that but if you need to call me tomorrow you can anytime n im here for u and you kno u can always come home._

 

And there it is again, the way it always is with Randy. He’d never left home, liked it just fine back on their papa’s ranch, sticking with the family Scudiero and the good life out there. He’d teased her for her engineering dreams and joked that she’d get tired of pretending to be a beach girl and eventually want to come back… if he’d sent that text the night before last, she might just have done it - packed up a couple outfits, left her phone on her bedside table and just driven herself all the way back home.

 

If she thinks about it _now_ though, she’s not so sure.

 

Things aren’t perfect, of course, they’re still pretty far from it, but after yesterday, they could just be on their way. She’d told Patrick everything she’d needed to, and he’d done the same to her...now the bigger problem is with Bobby. And she feels _bad_ about ditching him the day before - he’d asked if she wanted to come into the apartment, his beat-down posture just screaming _don’t leave me on my own_ , and yet Sandy had just sighed, shook her head, touched his cheek, and then driven away. In the moment she’d been thinking of herself, and needing to detox, and process, and come up with a clear game plan in her mind, but in reality she’d then locked herself in her bathroom, tipped every bubble bath she had into the tub and sat soaking, singing loudly along to Carrie Underwood ‘til her fingertips wrinkled and she’d eventually dragged herself out of the bath.

 

No real plans had been made. She’d just daydreamed about Texas, and about the little Mississippi twang around some of Patrick’s words.

 

\---

 

“Hi Uncle Eddy!” Pearl says, breezing through Edward’s front door the moment it opens. She throws her arms around his skinny neck and presses a loud _mwah!_ to his cheek before stomping over settling down on his couch, unzipping her backpack, tipping it open, and allowing a glittery notebook and several colourful gel pens to roll out onto his coffee table. She sets to work scribbling away without any explanation, as though all of this is completely normal and not at all unexpected or totally out of the blue.

 

Edward turns to Bobby, who’s quietly shutting the door behind him.

 

“I suppose this is something to do with the restaurant?” He says, watching as Bobby pointedly wipes his sneakers on the welcome mat. Bobby looks up, and shrugs. And if Edward too notices the particularly drab colour scheme Bobby’s wearing today, he doesn’t bring it up.

 

“ _Yeeeeah_. I dunno if Mister K told you what he thought by the end of the week, you were gone but… he basically told me that nothing had really changed and he’s like… not gonna let me make my own changes to the menu.”

 

Edward nods thoughtfully. “I see.” Then he coughs, clearing his throat, about to say something, at least until Pearl’s head snaps up.

 

“Uncle Eddy! Come over here, I need your old man brain.”

 

Edward heaves a sigh, but the look on his face is fond, so he dutifully crosses the room and takes a seat next to his teenage ‘niece’. Bobby hovers, feeling a bit like a spare part, until Pearl glares daggers at him and points to the space on the couch at her other side. “You too, Bobby.”

 

On her page, she’s got an array of colour-coded notes written in overly swirly cursive. At the top, _My plan to get Bobby Porter promoted from Fry Cook to Head Chef with Restaurant Menu Creativity Privileges and Executive Power_ heads up the page in glittery purple. All her ‘i’s are dotted with little hearts.

 

“Head Chef with Restaurant Menu Creativity Privileges and Executive Power?” Edward says, his tone a little incredulous. Pearl giggles.

 

“Don’t worry Uncle Eddy, I haven’t forgotten about you. My plan includes you getting promoted from _Cashier Guy_ to _Primary Secretary and Greeter with Creative Control over Atmosphere and In-Restaurant Entertainment._ ” She pops the lid off her neon green gel pen, and then gives a little _down to business_ cough. “So. I’ve like, already drawn up the changes there would be to your jobs, as well as some basic notes on the effect Bobby’s specials week had on business. I mean, I still haven’t got like, _all_ the stuff I need for that, we’re gonna need to get crazy specific if we wanna convince Daddy.”

 

She turns to Edward.

 

“And, like. I’m gonna need to know the money side. I mean...you know Daddy…”

 

Edward’s mouth twists. “Yes, I do. And you’re right, of course, we do have to consider the sort of financial gain any of this is going to result in for Eugene.” Then he pauses. “But I think, considering everything that’s happened recently, he’d be more than receptive to anything you have to say, Pearl.”

 

Pearl’s eyes lower. “Uh, yeah. Like, totally. Whatever.”

 

“I do mean it,” Edward says, seriously. “I know he seems a little one-track-minded sometimes, but you’re his daughter, Pearl. He loves _you_ more than anything in the world. Sometimes I think it takes him a little reminding, but… don’t doubt him too much.” Then he sits himself up straight. “Although, don’t _ever_ tell him I said that. I don’t want the old fool thinking I’ve got anything _like_ faith in him.”

Pearl laughs, tipping her head onto Edward’s shoulder for a second.

 

“Aw, I know you love him, Uncle Eddy. But that’s okay, your secret’s totally safe with me.”

 

“Oh, al _right_ ,” Edward says, patting Pearl’s hand. “Come on now, we’ve got to get to work. Robert--” he leans around Pearl’s body to meet the eyes of his younger co-worker. “--are you ready to make this happen?” He gestures to Pearl’s notebook of plans, and Bobby gulps.

 

“Um- _yeah_?”

 

“Is that a question?”

 

Bobby shakes his head. “Nope. No- I mean, yeah. Yes, I’m _ready_.”

 

\---

 

Mr and Mrs Porter don’t let Patrick leave before breakfast, because Mrs Porter needs some help in the garden. Patrick shrugs and agrees to help tend the begonias, but assures them he’ll be out of their hair by lunch. But Mr Porter insists he stay for lunch, because he needs someone tall to reach the higher up windows he’s trying to clean on the outside of the house. Patrick mimes rolling back his sleeves and agrees to gets his hands soapy, but tells them he’ll be out of their way by dinner. Try though both Porter parents do, Pat does make good on that. The last window washed, he pulls himself out of Mrs Porter’s insistent arms and bids them thanks and farewell.

 

 _You know you’re_ always _welcome here, son,_ says Mr Porter, blue eyes earnest behind black rimmed glasses. _Any time, whenever you need us._

 

Mrs Porter nods emphatically. _But if the next time rolls around and you and Bobby haven’t made up, there’s gonna be heck to pay, sweetheart._

 

Patrick laughs - _don’t you mean hell?_ But Mrs Porter’s firm on her no-cursing in the house rule. Patrick apologises dutifully, and then, with one final hug to both of them, he twirls his car keys around his finger and gets himself back in the pink not-Cadillac.

 

\---

 

Pearl caps her pen at 7PM on the dot. They’ve been working solidly on her plan to get Bobby promoted for about six hours, minus breaks for refreshments and light exercise. There’s smudges of glittery gel pen all over her hands, but a look of pure triumph on her face as she sets down the notebook proudly and turns to each co-worker sat beside her.

 

“Gentlemen,” she says, beaming. “We like, _totally_ have a presentation here.”

 

Bobby sits back, breathing out a long slow sigh. “You know what, Miss Pearl? I think you’re right.” Then he leans back, putting on his pirate voice, for the sake of being thematic. “And what say ye, Mister Edward?”

 

Edward hums, a closed-lip, high pitched and deliberate _hmmmmm_ , finger held thoughtfully to his chin. Pearl and Bobby chide him with _come on_ s and _uncle eddy, enough_ s, before he eventually gives in.

 

“I’d say we most _definitely_ have a presentation.”

 

\---

 

Sandy has a doorbell, which blares a very loud, very irritating little version of _country roads, take me home_ through the entire apartment. It is _horrible_ , but necessary. With the various half finished, loudly clattering mechanical projects scattered around Sandy’s home, she is more often than not unlikely to hear the simple rapping of knuckles against her from door.

 

“I’m comin’, I’m comin’,” she says, as the doorbell starts up its tinny little tune for a second time. She’s one shoulder out of her overalls, purple paint all down her front. _So much for my automatic house-painting robot_ , she thinks. She's really _got_ to stop these random hobby projects, they're getting her nowhere except to her little laundry room, and twice as frequently as she should go.

 

She hurriedly ties the sleeves of her coveralls in a knot at her waist and then grabs for the handle of her front door, before whoever it is can start _country roads_ up for a third time. The door swings open and Patrick is stood there, looking sheepish.

 

“Hey,” he says, and then he holds up a plastic bag from the Chinese place two blocks away. “Didn't wanna show up empty handed.”

 

Sandy’s lets out a breath that comes out as a laugh, and she steps aside to let him in.

 

“Well, aren't we the gentleman?”

 

Patrick shrugs, making a point to wipe his shoes on her welcome mat. “I dunno about that. Isn't the grown up thing to like, bring wine?”

 

Sandy shrugs. “I’d appreciate takeout over old grape juice any day. C’mon.”

 

\---

 

“...anyway,” Sandy wheezes, “the next thing we knew, our papa found us. I had _never_ seen him look so angry, my whole life, never seen ‘im so red in the face. He damn near turned purple. Purple as the walls!” she picks at the now-dried paint, that same shade flaking off her once-white overalls. “But after he was done shoutin’ at us, we went to bed. And the next mornin’, I found him outside just lookin’ up at the house. And he turned to me and he said, _you know what, kid? I actually think a plum-coloured barn’s exactly what we need._ ”

 

Patrick nods over his can of Pepsi. “So he kept it like that?”

 

Sandy giggles. “Yup, he sure did. Well, he got us to clean up the splatters, even it out by hand, you know. So that's what I was try’na eliminate.” She gestures to her paint-covered clothes. “Guess I still got a ways to go.” Then she shrugs. “Or maybe that's just it. Maybe this invention’s just a failure and there ain't no way to cut corners with wall paintin’ robots, and we gotta just keep paintin’ walls by hand.”

 

Patrick nods, and it’s quiet for a moment. Then his head tips back onto Sandy’s couch cushions, and he cranes his neck up, twists so he can see her properly. “That's not so bad.”

 

“Hm?”

 

“Painting walls by hand. I think there's something in the journey, there.”

 

Sandy rolls her eyes, and aims a halfhearted kick at his shoulder.

 

“Are you bein’ philosophical right now?”

 

Patrick snorts. “Nah. I havent done any philosophising since I took an introductory class back in college. _Is the sky blue?_ First thing they tried to get us to figure out.”

 

“You went to college?”

 

“ _Yeeeup_ ,” Pat says, and then he belches. “Community college, nothin’ too fancy. I dropped out.”

 

Sandy hums. “After how long?”

 

“‘Bout a year. Me and Bobby, we uh, we’d already moved out of his parents’ house, and we weren't doing so hot on the money front. Bobby was gettin’ fired from a job like every other week, and I could tell I was kinda…” He sighs. “Kind of a load on him. So I dropped out so I could take whatever work I could with my music down at the little...little indie cafe, you know the one? On the far side of town?”

 

Sandy nods - Bobby had taken her once, to see Patrick at open mic night. She hadn't hated the experience, but probably wouldn't go for it again. _Way_ too many steps involved in ordering a coffee there.

 

“Anyway,” Patrick says. “After a while I got pretty comfortable just performing for jazz nights, I didn't really see the point in going back to college.” He takes another glug of Pepsi. “Think I was too stupid for it, anyway.”

 

Sandy’s stomach twists. “Don't say that, Patrick. You ain't stupid.”

 

Patrick just grunts, and Sandy realises that all the easy warmth that there’d been in the room had all but seeped away.

 

“Patrick,” she says, insistent. “You're _not_ stupid.”

 

He doesn't even grunt, this time, just sets his soda can down next to him, all quiet. Sandy hesitates for a moment, before she slips from the couch to sit next to him on the floor.

 

“Pat,” she says, which she's never called him before. “You’re not stupid.”

 

“ _Patrick_ ,” Pat says, gruffly, pointedly looking away. “Or I’ll call you _Sand._ ”

 

“Deal.” Sandy says, firmly. “You're not stupid. You _aren't_ . I know I’ve- I know I’ve called you it before, but that don't make it right, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and it absolutely ain't the truth.” She leans across him, pushing her face close to his. “And _you_ know I’m right, ‘cause I’m the smartest person you know.”

 

Patrick scoffs, but not unkindly. “Sure.”

 

Sandy sighs, and shuffles herself around so she’s sat in front of him. She lowers her brows, and studies his face hard, her mouth and eyes serious. Her hands come up to rest on his shoulders. She gets very, very close.

 

“So. _Is_ the sky blue?” She asks.

 

\---

 

“Tomorrow, then.” says Pearl, as her team finishes cataloguing the various flip charts, note cards and flash drives they've totalled up for their presentation.

 

“Tomorrow.” says Bobby, still only feeling about 80%. After all, it had taken a flip chart presentation to get himself the specials week, and he doesn't know if adding powerpoint projection is really going to make all _that_ much difference.

 

“Tomorrow.” says Edward, more thankful than he’d admit to his ‘niece’ that her long day of aggressive marketing seems to be finally over. “I certainly think we’re ready.”

 

Bobby nods. “Then that's that. Pearl,” he turns to her. “What time should we be at your place?”

 

“Nine AM, on the dot. Wear your good shoes.” She squints at him, hard. “And...blue. A tie, I think. But no grey.” Bobby nods. Pearl turns to Edward. “Uncle Eddy, you’ll look fabulous no matter what turtleneck you choose.”

 

Edward lets out a little hoity-toity _hmph_ , and then makes a point to start cleaning their coffee mugs off his feature table. Bobby jumps to try and help, but Edward swats him away.

 

“Alright, I’ve had quite enough of you two for today.”

 

Pearl laughs. “See you tomorrow, Uncle Eddy.” She bids him goodbye with another quick kiss on the cheek, a half-hug to Bobby, and then she's out the door.

 

Bobby hovers by the door, hovering, again, like he sort of feels he’s been doing all day. Edward clears his throat.

 

“Robert,” he says. “Are you alright?”

 

Bobby nods weakly. “Yeah?”

 

“Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve been acting all day. I hope this isn’t the same thing as last week, Patrick told me you’d all spoken about it.”

 

 _That_ stops Bobby. Cogs grind together slowly in his head, and he vaguely realises what probably happened two nights ago. Misunderstanding, it seems, has become an overly common theme not only in Bobby’s life, but in all the people around him, too. But he’s tired of having to explain what happened with Patrick and Sandy, tired from a day of planning, tired, tired, tired, so instead of saying what he should, he says;

 

“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine, everything’s ship shape, Eddy. I just didn’t get a lot of sleep last night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

Edward nods curtly, but something in his expression says he can tell there’s more to it than Bobby’s letting on.

 

“Alright. See you tomorrow.”

 

Bobby nods, and then he too, is out the door.

 

\---

 

Sandy’s half in Patrick’s lap, her head against his chest, her fingers playing with his. Every so often his phone had vibrated in his pocket and he’d ignored it, and Sandy’s pretty sure she knows that’s going on there. Early evening has turned to late night, and she wants to go to bed, but Patrick’s still talking, which, honestly, is unusual, so she wants to keep listening.

 

An hour before, he’d explained to her about the sky, and whether or not it is blue. She _knows_ that it is blue, when it is blue, because of blue light scatter, because it travels in shorter, smaller waves than the other colours of light in the visible spectrum. There's a science to it, like there is with everything. But Patrick simply tells her - _it’s because it’s not green._ For a moment after he’s very quiet, and then he tells her about how much he prefers the sky when it’s pink. When it’s early morning blue streaked with magenta. When it’s hot summer sunset turning orange to cerise. When it’s soft, cotton candy all over. Sandy laughs and reaches up for the faded-pink dye that starts halfway along his long hair. He lets her, and then she says;

 

“I’ve never had somebody I’d call a best friend before.” Patrick makes a noise, something you might make if you wanted to say ‘ _what, really?’_ without putting in the actual work. Sandy nods. “I mean it. Back at home I didn’t fit in with anyone ‘cause I’d rather practice _kata_ or blow stuff up in the barn. Soon as I could get away I did, but I was ready not to get close to anybody... no matter where I ended up.”

 

She squeezes the hand she’s holding and thinks, for a moment, about what it is she’s really trying to say.

 

“I don’t know if things would’a turned out differently if I was better at makin’ friends before I met Bobby, and you. But I do know that you guys are… probably the best people I’ve ever met, ‘n’ I _mean_ that.”

 

Patrick’s quiet, as he often is. Sandy keeps talking.

 

“What I’m try’na say here is -- y’all are just hurting each other, not being together. It’s just going to keep on and keep on hurting until you go back.” She sighs. “You guys belong with each other.”

 

Patrick hums.

 

“Tomorrow, then.” He says. His fingers curl around hers, sticky with sweat and a half-dried blob of chilli sauce on the skin next to his thumb. “You wanna come with?”

 

Sandy nods.

 

“Yep. Tomorrow it is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now i wouldn't normally beg, but we are in the last act. and next month this fic is going to be a year old! (at least, in publishing. i began writing august of 2016, can you believe it?) what i'm asking is, if you've read this, be it just now or since i started publishing it, if this fic has meant anything to you at all, i'd be honestly over the moon and beyond honoured if you'd leave me a comment and let me know what you think.


	13. ACT 3 PART 3: the hottest blog post.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> we now come close to a resolution! here i present you, this month's update (it's the 30th, but as long as i stay in the month, then i consider it a job well done.) the stress of university work has REALLY been taking a toll on me so i apologise for the slightly shorter length of this chapter, though maybe that's a good thing. this fic is ma-HOOSIVE-ly long.
> 
> anyway. enjoy!

Patrick, about halfway into Monday morning, realises he’s been wearing the same clothes since Saturday night. The problem with that, apart from the fact that he’s starting to smell more than a little stale, is that there aren't really clothes his size at Sandy’s place, and if he wants to _get_ at clothes his size -- he’s going to _hav_ e to go back to the apartment. And sure, he’d agreed to it the night before, when Sandy had been all cosied up and convincing, but the decision looks less wonderful today.

 

 _Saying_ he’ll go back is one thing, but following through? When he thinks of Bobby he thinks of the last thing he heard Bobby say, the bitter, world-breaking words that had cut Patrick so deep.

 

How are he and Bobby supposed to come back from that? He knows in his heart he’s going to have to forgive and forget, because if he’s honest with himself he knows being apart from Bobby hurts more than anything Bobby could ever simply _say_ to him - but that doesn’t change the fact that the hurt’s still pretty fresh, even after their extended weekend apart. Ideally, he wants to take at least a week to mope and be depressed about the whole sorry affair. Then again, it’s not polite to let himself be smelly around a lady’s house, and it’s even less polite to go back on a promise made to that very lady just the night before.

 

“Now don’t you worry,” Sandy says, as she hops into the shotgun side of Patrick’s not-Cadillac. “Ain’t nothin’ to worry about. I’ll be with you all the way.” Patrick only makes a non-committal noise in response. The breeze that rushes past pulls the hairs on his forearms up, and he can’t shake the feeling that things might go wrong. That he’ll say the wrong thing, make things worse, ruin any hope of reconciliation. Wouldn’t _that_ be stupid. Wouldn’t that be just like him.

 

He groans and starts the car before he can do something even stupider, like change his mind.

 

\---

 

Of course, after all his worrying, when he and Sandy _do_ get to apartment 124, predictably, it’s empty. There’s no sign of Bobby bar a few days worth of candy wrappers on the coffee table, and, when consulted about Bobby’s whereabout, Gary’s _meowed_ responses are just as cryptic as they always are.

 

“Huh,” Patrick says, after they’ve checked all the rooms and turned up no fry cooks. It’s early for Bobby to have gone to work, they’d made sure to arrive before the time he’d usually set off, which leaves Patrick and Sandy a little stumped. “Guess he’s...not here.”

 

Sandy rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I think that’s obvious.” She takes a seat on the couch, but not before quickly swiping some crumbs off the cushions. “You reckon he just left for work early?”

 

Patrick shrugs. “Guess so.” He makes to sit down next to Sandy, but she lifts her leg, extends, and pushes him back with her foot.

 

“Oh no you don’t,” she says. “We can still take care of your stink problem.”

 

Patrick allows himself to be shoved without protest, and only nods to go take care of business. Sandy’s right - the call of the shower has gone unheeded for too long.

 

\---

 

Across town, Bobby and Edward get out of Edward’s car and begin the nerve-wracking journey between the driveway and the front door to the house in which Eugene and Pearl Krabs are already waiting for them. Edward’s pace is brisk, and, despite the uncomfortable churning feeling in Bobby’s guts, he does his best to match Edward's confident stride.

 

As instructed, he’s dressed in a flattering blue shirt, and the same tie he’d worn the day he’d first asked his boss if he could try something new on the restaurant’s menu. It’s skinny, and a navy-blue, with a little pattern of pineapples on it. A present from Patrick, about three birthdays ago. It’s his semi-formal one, and he figured it’d fly better than the red knitted one he’s got.

 

When Pearl answers the door, she flashes him a big thumbs up and an even bigger grin.

 

“Bobby! Uncle Eddy! Perfect timing!” She says, grabbing both of them by the wrist and dragging them through the front door. She’s shorter than usual, with her shoes being off, but she still towers well over Bobby. “Daddy’s waiting for us in the living room. I’ve got everything ready.”

 

True to Pearl’s word, Mr Krabbe is sat on the couch in the darkened living room. The curtains have all been drawn and Pearl’s laptop is hooked up to the TV, which, at her dash-over-and-button-press, suddenly illuminates the room with Pearl’s pre-determined, overly-long project headline. Mr Krabbe’s eyebrows lift.

 

“ _Pearl Krabbe’s plan to get Bobby Porter promoted from Fry Cook to Head Chef with Restaurant Menu Creativity Privileges and Executive Power_?” Krabbe reads. “What’s all this, Pearly?”

 

Pearl puts her hands on her hips. “Just sit back and _listen_ , Daddy. I swear, this’ll all _totally_ make sense.”

 

\---

 

One shower later, Patrick’s presentable. He throws on a pair of shorts, his threadbare Disneyworld t-shirt, from the great summer of ‘09, and emerges from the bathroom, long hair still damp. Sandy’s sitting on the kitchen counter with a half-eaten bowl of cereal, the edges of her dark, storm-cloud hairdo glowing orange from the morning sunlight through the window behind her. She looks a little pale, and a little tired, and so, so very pretty, and it strikes Patrick then just how all-in she is, and how lost he’d be right now if she hadn’t come to find him, come to snap him out of his funk.

 

 _Wow_ , he thinks, as she raises her spoon in salute. _She’s something else._

 

“Well, partner,” she says, sounding as southern as anything. “You don’t got a stink cloud following you around anymore, so I reckon we’re good here.”

 

Patrick snorts. “Sure.” Then he crosses the room, starts to pour himself some cereal before he realises the box is empty. Shrugging, he turns back to her. “So...what now?”

 

Sandy hums thoughtfully. “Well, I reckon Bobby’ll be back here eventually, guess we could just...think about what you’ll say to him?”

 

Patrick’s mouth twists, not a hundred percent sure he’s loving that idea, but he nods along for the sake of politeness, eyes wandering. He looks first at Sandy, and then past her, to the window, and then past the window, to what’s outside. He looks at the street out there, and his car, parked on that street. He looks at the car. And he looks at the car.

 

A lightbulb clicks on and he bolts for the front door.

 

\---

 

Bobby’s not known for being amazing under pressure. He’s failed his driver’s test too many times to count, and the one time he went up at Patrick’s open mic night, he managed half a joke before having to climb back down from the stage to breathe into a paper bag. He sweats a lot more than he’d like to, yet his mouth goes dry as the desert. _Boy_ , is he ever glad Pearl’s doing most of the talking. He and Edward are more like living mannequins honestly, contributing only to the atmosphere and not to the presentation. And his status as living prop gives him full opportunity to focus most of his attention on trying to decipher Mr Krabbe’s facial expression, which, Bobby would have to say, is mostly undecipherable. Known for the shell around his personality, Krabbe’s face is stony through the entire presentation. His arms are folded, giving nothing away, though he nods every so often, to show he’s taking it in. Bobby finds himself nodding too, bobble-heading along to everything Pearl’s saying right up until she suddenly flicks the ceiling light back on and everybody blinks and grimaces, eyes adjusting to the light.

 

“Will you excuse us, lads,” Krabbe says, not even looking at Edward or Bobby. They look to each other and shrug, allowing themselves to be waved into the kitchen. Bobby’s already half-leaning back through the doorway to eavesdrop when Edward shuts the door on him.

 

\---

 

There are three tapes in Patrick’s car. They’re not always guaranteed to be in the same place, but they are always guaranteed to be there. All it takes is a bit of looking. And Patrick’s checked the glove compartment, the trunk, the flip-shade in desperate search for one tape in particular.

 

He retrieves it from its hiding place after cramming himself half under the shotgun seat - which is hard to do, considering how big he is, but for this plan to work, he’d happily stuff himself into a cooler.

 

Sandy picks up the discarded _road trip mix: volume 6, the final jam_ and the _get pumped for work mix_ on her way back out to the car. Pat’s got a good arm - she had to cross half the parking lot to grab _the final jam_. As she makes her approach to the starboard side of the not-Cadillac, Patrick’s meaty arm punches the air and, gripped tight in his hand is another cassette. When she’s close enough, Sandy reads the label aloud.

 

“ _In case you need to ‘say anything’_ _someone_?” Her eyebrows lift. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Patrick’s head pops up, looking affronted. “ _Say anything_?” He lifts both his arms up over his head. “Picture me with a boombox and a trench coat.”

 

Sandy’s expression shifts from puzzled to slightly more puzzled. “You’re...gonna flash someone to music?”

 

Patrick lowers his arms. “You really haven’t seen that movie?”

 

Sandy rolls her eyes. “I don’t have as much free time as you, Mister Professional Couch Potato.”

 

Patrick looks blank. “Thanks.”

 

“Oh, you know what I mean!”

 

He laughs. “No, I do. Anyway, it’s a _classic_ ,” He puts a flourish on the word with a wave of the hand, “But what’s _important_ is the part where the guy and the girl break up and the guy plays their favourite song on a boombox outside her window.”

 

Sandy’s face now goes from confused to flat-out unimpressed. “And what, then they got back together?”

 

Patrick forces the cassette into the player, looking serious. “Yes. Get in.”

 

\---

 

Bobby’s sweated right through his shirt, and he laments the single-spritz he went for when applying deodorant that morning. He’s strongly considering breaking his own rule of not-touching-anything-out-of-politeness and busting into the roll of paper towels to try and dab himself off when Krabbe and Pearl suddenly enter the kitchen, both looking pleased.

 

Bobby hardly dares to hope, but before he can even open his mouth and ask, he finds himself pulled down and wrapped up in the strong, hairy arms of his boss, who squeezes tight, claps him hard on the back and then pulls back, holding Bobby at arm’s length and beaming up at him. Bobby looks close, and notices the flush in Krabbe’s cheeks, the glimmer of what could be tears in his eyes. Pearl steps up to his side, wrapping an arm around her feather’s shoulders and she throws Bobby a wink.

 

“Well, boy-o, it looks like you’ll be needing a new name tag.” Krabbe says. And then, without looking up, he adds, “you’ll get one too, Mister Edward. In fact…” He steps back, and takes in his Krab Krew. “I think it’s time for a whole new _everything_.”

 

\---

 

Sandy will admit that her taste in music is as stereotypical as it comes for a girl straight out of the south, but she thinks she knows enough about _Bobby’s_ musical taste to figure that most of the stuff on Patrick’s _say anything_ tape? It’s totally not Bobby’s style. Bobby sings along loudest to stuff like _i really really really like you_ and _anything goes_ , but so far she’s only heard emotional tunes by Phil Collins and Elvis Presley. And much as she adores _can’t help falling in love_ , it just doesn’t seem...Bobby. Especially not like this, coming out crackly through the radio in Patrick’s pink hot rod.

 

When she hears the first strains of _in your eyes_ , she decides that enough is enough, and she stabs at the cassette player’s stop button.

 

“Hey!” Patrick tries to hit play and get things going again, but Sandy grabs his wrist.

 

“No, no, no. Patrick, I want you to engage that big ol’ noggin of yours and think for a moment. Sure, this is a sweet gesture’n all, but don’t you think these songs are all a bit... _un-Bobby-ish_?”

 

Patrick keeps his eyes on the road, and gives a vague short of shrug. “I dunno.”

 

Sandy huffs. “Don’t give me that, I know _you_ know I’m right.”

 

Patrick groans. “Do you always _have_ to be?”

 

Sandy folds her arms. “ _Yes_.”

 

It’s quiet then, and for a minute they drive in silence, before Sandy pipes up again.

 

“Look, I ain’t saying that trying to ‘say anything’ him or whatever isn’t a good idea, but I reckon you could go about it a bit better. This is just a tape,” she says, hitting eject and holding it up, waving it around in a way that Patrick’s happy to admit makes him a bit nervous. “What makes it special?”

 

Patrick grumbles, but he doesn’t come up with any words, and he just _knows_ that Sandy knows she’s won.

 

“Actually,” Sandy says. “I think I have an idea.”

 

\---

 

Krabbe drives them all to work. It’s a squeeze, all four of them jammed into his little car, but if Krabbe trusts _ol’ faithful_ , then Bobby does too. He’s in the back with Pearl, whose thumbs are working overtime on something she’s keeping deliberately turned away from him. In the front, Krabbe gives a rousing rendition of _drunken sailor_ that he insists Edward join in with - and Edward, surprisingly, complies, doing his best to add operatic harmony to the sea shanty. Bobby thinks - _this is_ exactly _the kind of weird musical happenstance Pat would love._ Then his stomach rolls unpleasantly, thinking of Patrick for the first time that morning. He’s still not heard anything from him, and the uncertainty’s making him crazy.

 

At least he has a full work day to focus on.

 

\---

 

Change doesn’t happen in a day, but Pearl hangs around and she and Krabbe talk over potential interior remodelling, and Edward interjects when he’s not taking down orders and counting out change.

 

Bobby’s back to frying up classic patties, which is something of a relief after last week’s daily culinary creativity test, but something so easy for him to do of course has his mind wandering. The sizzle of meat against the grill is one thing, but as he starts slicing onions he thinks back to that night that feels almost months ago, when he hadn’t had a clue what to do and he’d turned to his closest to help him out of it. He doesn’t make _Mount Funyun_ version three, but he thinks about how much that had meant to him, and he wonders how he can do something that would mean _as_ much to Patrick. The radio’s been playing Whitesnake and Eric Martin all morning, and as the easy-rock opening to _to be with you_ starts to fill the kitchen space, Bobby remembers how much Pat loves music like this, and how awesome it would be to _say anything_ him with it. Now _that_ would be perfect. However Bobby feels about that movie, he knows that Patrick _loves_ it. Patrick loves that movie and he loves that _scene_ \- and that could help Bobby find the platform to say he’s sorry, to try and make things right.

 

He’s about to toss his spatula down and hop on the next bus to his parents’ house when he hears a commotion coming from the diner floor. Before he can investigate, Edward sticks his head through the service window and makes a _get your butt out here this instant_ face, so Bobby quickly flips one last burger and then is quick to hurry himself out into the bustling dining area, which has gone unusually still - at least until the moment he steps through the doorway to the kitchen, and then suddenly everything changes.

 

Sandy Scudiero stands in the middle of the room in a shiny purple raincoat that extends past her knees. There’s a guitar slung over her shoulder and she starts up strumming the moment their eyes meet. The chords are simple enough, just a C to a G to A minor, but the rhythm to her strums is something he recognises. She grins at him as he stands dumbstruck, and then she steps aside and Patrick’s there, wearing an equally long raincoat in a shocking lime green, trombone raised to his lips where Bobby knows the lyrics would come in.

 

It’s their _B.F.F._ theme song, the one Bobby’d written way, _way_ back in middle school, with dumb lyrics about the glasses he used to wear, and Patrick’s favourite kind of cheese. It’s been a long, long time since it’s been performed at all - they haven’t sung it since they were kids, and it has never before been so fantastically realised as it is right now, on trombone with accompanying country guitar. There’s no lyrics, just the jazzy stylings of Patrick on his favourite brass instrument, but it says enough, heck, it says _everything_ , and by the time his best friends have gotten through the last little refrain, Bobby’s fairly sure he’s cried his contact lenses out.

 

Patrick lowers the trombone to the applause in the room, and as he steps forward Bobby half-chokes on what he’s trying to say, words watery, he manages - _hey, I was gonna do this for you!_ \- before he finds himself pulled into the three-way hug to end all three-way hugs, tempered only slightly by the feeling of Sandy’s guitar digging into his side.

 

“I’m so-so- I’m _so_ sorry--” Bobby starts, still half-muffled somewhere between Patrick’s belly and Sandy’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry a-about what I said. I kn-know I can’t undo it but I’ll- I’ll- I’ll do _any-anything_ to make it up to you.”

 

Patrick laughs, and pushes Bobby so he’s holding him at arm’s length. “I forgive you.”

 

Bobby lets out another wet sob, and Sandy laughs, playfully shaking his shoulder.

 

“Alrighty then. Am I ever glad you guys are okay now! I was near enough to screamin’ seein’ y’all so sad.” She beams, and then turns to Patrick. “Great tromboning, by the way.”

 

“Great guitaring,” he shoots back. Bobby snorts, and wipes his nose hurriedly on his tie, since it’s the closest thing, and he ignores the suddenly horrified look on Sandy’s face.

 

“How did you- how’d you guys come up with...this?” Bobby asks, gesturing to their instruments. Patrick shrugs.

 

“I was gonna _say anything_ you with the tape. It was Sandy’s idea to play you something live.”

 

“Uh-uh, don’t let him fool you, actin’ all modest. It was _Patrick’s_ idea to play _that_ particular song. I was gonna try and have us make one up.”

 

“And I didn’t even know you _could_ play the guitar,” says Patrick.

 

Bobby lifts a finger just as Sandy shrugs and they both say that, _yes, and she plays the harmonica too_ . They _jinx_ each other and then giggle, and the last of the crowd that had gathered around them disperses, returning to their tables to finish the rest of their lunch, some of them hurrying more than others as Mr. Krabbe emerges from his office to ensure his employees are earning their keep.

 

He’s about to barrel over to where Patrick, Bobby and Sandy are still stood in a loose sort of embrace, but Pearl sticks an arm out to stop him and shoves her phone under his nose, which he takes and holds out at a distance he can actually read from. On the screen is the bright pink theme to Pearl’s blog, _Pearls of Wisdom_ , which has accumulated a fair following from her fashion posts. This one is short and sweet, mostly hyping up the pros and glossing over the cons of coming to _Ye Olde Krusty Krabbe_ , new-name-pending, but she’s put an emotional spin on this post. _‘fry cook’s heartbreak’s finally over(easy)!!!’_ , plus many sparkling heart emojis, and beneath the tagline, a paparazzo-style snap of Bobby standing starstruck and tearful, looking on as Patrick and Sandy play their song; and then below, another photo of the three of them hugging tight, to the joyful applause of the restaurant onlookers.

 

“This’ll get us _so_ many likes,” Pearl whispers to her father, looking thoroughly pleased. “Everyone loves a good happy ending.”

 

Patrick and Sandy toss their instruments into Patrick’s car, and then toss on hairnets and take up their debatably official positions as Bobby’s kitchen staff. After all of that, it’s business as usual, but Bobby’s chest feels warm and light to be elbow-to-elbow with Patrick and Sandy again, and if it _has_ to be business as usual again, then he’s happy to just to be here with them.

 

Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not quite at the ending, but finally the worst part's over! our gang is going to have one more Important Conversation next chapter which will mark the end of the overall story, and then there will be the final chapter which'll act as i kind of epilogue. stay tuned, and if you're reading this, thank you so so VERY much for sticking with me!


	14. ACT 3 PART 4: word of mouth.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well, we are so very close to the end now! this marks the end of the main story, but we have one final chapter which is sort of like an epilogue, and then that'll be it. can you believe it!?
> 
> but anyway. it ISN'T over yet. enjoy this latest update! it's a little shorter than some, but that's because it's just happy. just happy happy happy.

The first day back to work is one of the best working days Bobby’s ever had, but all good things must end, and he knows as he and his friends pack away and close up shop, and take the day’s leftover unused burgers away in a to-go bag, that eventually the warm, glowing bubble of the day’s grand gesture will have to pop, and things will get real again. So he’s holding his breath and holding on for it, as they lock the building up and then pile into the car, still merry and giggling, lapsing into comfortable quiet as Patrick drives them home.  _ Home _ , Bobby thinks, maybe now after what feels like  _ so _ long, it’ll feel that way again. He’s taken his place in the shotgun seat of Pat’s hot rod, elbow leant on the door. Sandy occasionally leans herself past and over him to stab at the dials on the dashboard radio when she decides she’s bored of what’s playing, and every brush of her bare forearm against his shoulder reminds him to remind himself that things are on their way to being ok.

 

They’re just about to pull up to their complex’s parking lot and halfway to making the turn when Patrick suddenly swerves to a response of indignant confused noises from his passengers that go unlistened to, and he decides to keep driving, heading on, heading past. Bobby and Sandy prod and him and ask just  _ what _ it is he thinks he’s doing, and  _ has _ he forgotten where they live after three days away? He just laughs and shrugs their hands off, rolling his shoulders and keeping his eyes on the road, and after another ten minutes or so of driving, he pulls up at the parking lot next to the boardwalk, cutting the engine and letting out a long, dramatic yawn.

 

“Gee, guys,” he says. “I’d say we worked hard today. What’s say we all take a load off at the beach?”

 

Bobby and Sandy exchange looks. For the summer, it’s not really all that warm, even it being the  early evening, but that leaves the beach clear, and there’s really nothing quite like the boardwalk when the shadows outside are getting long and you’ve got it all to yourself. So they shrug and nod and all three disembark, kicking the doors to the not-Cadillac shut and, with one lock-click, they make for the pier.

 

Formation starts separate, a triangle with Patrick in the lead, half-crumpled to-go-bag leaking grease in his left hand, his sneakers kicking up the little grains of sand that have ventured just a little too far off the shoreline. Sandy’s one-and-a-half strides behind, hands rubbing her arms against the chill, and Bobby’s just a step behind, maybe a pace or two to the left, hands in his pockets, tie flipping back over his shoulder in the breeze.

 

And the pull-together starts small. They don’t say much, Bobby thinks -  _ we haven’t popped the bubble. _ But of course he notices how the chill’s making the skin on Sandy’s arms go goose-pimply - and he’s got his hoodie on, so why not? In a moment it’s slipped from his shoulders and he balls it up, tosses it to her, thinking only how stupid it is to do so as he’s saying  _ think fast! _ But no worries there, because she thinks even faster than he can say it, and catches the rolled up bundle of yellow fabric without even thinking, laughing and claiming  _ no-takebacks now, _ as she shrugs it on. Her boys stop as she does a little twirl, the air ballooning the fabric up around her as she goes.

 

When they start walking again, Sandy falls into step with Bobby. She nudges his side with her elbow, making a loop that she raises her eyebrows at ‘til he slips his arm through hers, making him the arm-candy to her boardwalk catwalking queen. Patrick’s still heading up the group, but the wooden walkway is wide as anything, a group of ten could walk shoulder-to-shoulder with no trouble. So Bobby urges Sandy’s pace on just a little, and extends his hand to Patrick. Extends his hand, his left to Pat’s right, and tries not to look. If he looks, it’ll just about end him if Patrick doesn’t take his hand. If he doesn’t look, he can just pretend he was swinging his arm a bit too wide. But If he looks, and Patrick doesn’t take his hand, that’ll it be it, the end of the bubble. Bobby knows he won’t be able to handle it, if  _ I forgive you _ was only step one, and he’s got a way to go yet before they can touch again. He knows, he  _ knows _ \--

 

Patrick takes his hand. And when he looks, Patrick gives him that same easy grin, the one he always does, his chilled-out look, no worries, with maybe just a hint of something more. It’s everything Bobby’s missed, and the bubble hasn’t popped yet. Bobby looks now from his left to his right, to Sandy with her pretty face glowing and the sun glowing behind her, and he knows exactly how he feels. He knows exactly where he wants to be, and the bubble just grows and grows and grows around them.

 

\---

 

They step off the boardwalk where the little rickety stairway leads down, wood planks melting into the yellow of the sand. Pat and Bobby immediately regret their choice of shoes, but Sandy bends down and slips her Keds off, her arm unlooping with Bobby’s only to tie the laces of her shoes together and toss them onto the fence along the boardwalk, ignoring Patrick’s comment about seagulls coming along to steal them. Mission accomplished, she grabs Bobby’s hand again and they three make for where the tide rushes forward, water licking it’s dark line upon the sand.

 

“You know, it’s about five thousand miles to England,” Sandy says, conversationally. “ _ That’a way _ .” And she winds up her arm and points right at the ocean.

 

“Oh yeah?” says Patrick. “What, you wanna go there?”

 

Sandy snorts. “Not likely.”

 

Bobby shrugs. “I don’t know, I think it could be cool. Maybe we could meet the Queen. They have a Queen, right?”

 

Sandy nods. “They do, but I don’t know how receptive she is to American tourists knockin’ on her door askin’ for a selfie with her corgis.”

 

They sit down, just far enough back that the tide doesn't touch them. Bobby in the middle, Patrick and Sandy on either side. Patrick slings an arm around Bobby’s shoulders, and Sandy leans her head against his. All is quiet, until;

 

“I’ve thought about us a lot,” Bobby says. “This past two weeks. This- this isn’t where it started, of course. I can’t even really figure out  _ when _ it did. But…” he takes a deep breath. “I mean. This is when I really started  _ thinking _ about us.”

 

He leans back, back, all the way ‘til he’s lying  _ on _ his back, squinting up at the sky with it’s low, early-evening sun. Patrick and Sandy follow suit - Pat’s got no choice after all, with his arm still halfway behind Bobby’s head.

 

“You know how- you know how in the movies, it’s always two best friends at first, and then one of them falls in love with this new person they meet?”

 

Patrick hums,  _ mm-hmm _ , and Sandy nods; Bobby can feel the movement against his head.

 

“Yeah. And I always hated that, you know, ‘cause it seems like having to choose between two people that you really- that you really love.” He turns his head to Patrick. “It’d be like me asking  _ you _ to choose between putting mustard or ketchup on your hotdogs.”

 

Patrick looks mildly affronted. “You’re saying I can’t have  _ both _ ?”

 

Bobby nods, serious. “Yeah. But- also, no. No.” He turns back to the sky, eyes squeezed half-shut. “I’m saying… I want both mustard  _ and _ ketchup on mine.”

 

Patrick looks thoughtful. “What about onions? Sauerkraut?”

 

Sandy snorts. “I think you’re takin’ the metaphor too far, now.”

 

Patrick cranes his neck so he can throw Sandy a mock-glare. “Untrue. It’s not far  _ enough _ .” He turns to Bobby. “Why are we talking about metaphorical hot dogs? We should be eating  _ real _ ones. Or at  _ least _ our leftover burgers,” and he waves the to-go bag in their faces.

 

“Good point,” says Bobby, pushing the to-go bag back down, “but kind of off-topic. I’ll drop the hot dog metaphor because this-- this is important, okay? I need to say it.”

 

He sits himself up sharply, and scoots himself around in the sand to look down at Pat and Sandy, his two very best friends, who prop themselves up on their elbows, looking up at him with matching quizzical expressions.

 

“I need to say it, out loud, to your faces,  _ both  _ of you, in the same place, at the same time. With you  _ both _ here together, because that’s when…” He hesitates. “That’s when everything feels  _ exactly _ how I want it. When it’s us, when it’s _ all _ of us, that’s when I feel like… like I can do anything. Climb a mountain, go on a quest for a princess...heck, even avert a natural disaster! When it’s  _ us _ \-- I can do anything. And I can say  _ this _ .”

 

He reaches forward, places each of his hands on top of theirs. They’re warm and dusted with sand, and he wills himself to make what he’s just said true. He  _ can _ say this.

  
  
  
  


“I’m in love with both of you guys.”

  
  
  


Bobby braces himself for-- well, something. Anything, really, but for a moment, everything is still and silent, save for the sound of the tide rushing forward and then falling back behind him. But frightening though the silence _ could _ be, nothing feels off-kilter. And it only takes him one more breath in before he finds almost all the air squeezed _ out _ of him, when both Patrick and Sandy surge forward to throw their arms around him, squeezing tight.

 

When they pull apart, Sandy’s laughing. She laughs and laughs until Patrick joins in, and Bobby can only sit there, bewildered, ‘til she catches her breath enough to say,  _ ‘oh, we know.’ _

 

Bobby lets out a disbelieving chuckle, eyes wide. “Well, you don’t have to  _ laugh _ about it!”

 

“Oh,” she says, squeezing his arm, her eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry, sweet-pea. You were just  _ so _ dang worked up about it but we-” She looks to Patrick. “-we kind of figured it out.”

 

Bobby lets out a shaky breath. “Okay.  _ Well _ ?” He asks, eyes darting between them, prompting their response.

 

“We’re in love with you too.” Says Patrick, simply. Bobby exhales again, this time loud, long, and it makes his shoulders sag with relief. He tips his head forward, folding himself up all the way, his forehead coming to rest on someone’s knee - Patrick’s, the thinks. He allows himself his own moment to laugh with relief, and once his shoulders have stilled, he sits back up.

 

“What about… what about you guys, though? I mean, I know how you feel about  _ me _ , but… what about for each other?”

 

Patrick and Sandy exchange looks. There’s something  _ in _ that look, something weighty and serious and for a moment, Bobby starts to regret asking, but then Sandy gets that little glint in her eye, and suddenly she’s kissing Patrick. Right there, right in front of Bobby. And where he knows in another life, or another world, maybe he’d feel the burn of jealousy in his belly, instead the fire’s something else. Something else entirely. And as he watches his best friends in the world part from each other, intensity and wonder in their eyes, Bobby knows that if the ocean behind him tried to sweep him up then and there, he’d give anything and everything he had, brave any harsh water or sharp-stoned shoreline to get back to them.

 

“We’re... _ gettin’ there _ .” Sandy says, shoulders lifting, chin dipping as she giggles. Patrick grabs Bobby’s hand.

 

“She’s right.” Says Patrick, and his free hand reaches for Sandy as he scoots himself forward, eyes on Bobby’s. His gaze drops to Bobby’s mouth, and that’s all it takes. Kissing Patrick again - can it  _ really _ be only the second time they’ve ever done this? - feels just so right, sends a thrill right through to every fingertip. Their lips part only for their foreheads to rest against each other, breathing hard, feeling so,  _ so _ happy. Then, turning his head just a little, Sandy’s lips on Bobby’s hardly feels unexpected at all. Kissing her is a little different, smoother, no stubble-burn, and maybe just a little racier. No less wonderful.

 

Kisses over, they all just take a moment to take each other in.

 

Bobby looks at Patrick, eyes going all the way up to the back-combed  _ pouf  _ of his hair, sprayed and styled and tied back, two months overdue for a dye-top up, or maybe Pat’s just decided carnation pink’s no longer his thing? Couldn’t blame him, Bobby looks back at his daffodil-yellow high school senior hairdo with faint embarrassment.

 

(Anyway, he knows he wouldn’t mind if Patrick decided to do away with the pompadour altogether - though he doubts  _ that _ would happen, Bobby knows no matter what, Patrick’s the handsomest guy he’s ever seen.)

 

Patrick looks at Sandy, and the low-hanging sun makes her silver caffeine-molecule necklace sparkle as she breathes, rising and falling against her chest the way it does. He looks at her and he remembers she sometimes wears flowers in her hair, tuck little blossoms right into the dark, tight coils, but she hasn’t in a while.

 

(There are flowers further along the beach, where the sand gives way to grass, that same open sky they took the junior entomologists to hunt for  _ eurytides marcellus. _ There’s lilac out there, and peach-pink, and they’d both suit her.)

 

Sandy looks at Bobby, with his tie still wind-tossed over his shoulder, and his red-blonde hair unruly across his forehead. It was shorter when they’d first met, so short she didn’t even know it curled. He’d been a little more up-tight then, before she found out he shared her passion for  _ karate _ .

 

(They’re long overdue for a sparring session, mock-fighting no substitute for really putting in the effort. Though he’s far from her level yet, he’s pretty sure he deserves his blue belt by now. She’d love to be the one to give it to him.)

  
  
  


“So, what now?” Patrick asks, hands still squeezing the hands held in his. 

 

Bobby shrugs. “Well, we’ve all kissed. I don’t really know where to go from here.”

 

Patrick nods, thoughtful. “But we  _ haven’t _ all kissed. Not at once, I mean.”

 

Sandy laughs. “What, us all tryin’ to smooch on each other at the same time? I don’t think that’ll work.”

 

Bobby leans in, suddenly excited. “No, no, come on,  _ San-day _ ,” he says, “Where’s your scientist’s spirit? This’ll be- this’ll be in the pursuit of knowledge. It’s  _ science _ .”

 

It’s  _ absurd _ , but Sandy finds she just laughs all the more. “Aw, alright. If it’s for  _ science _ . How are we gonna do this?”

 

They decide to lean themselves in as close as they can, a triangle formation with their heads, inclining forward, leaning with their noses, keeping it slow and steady as they can until they all meet in the middle, angling themselves wherever possible to achieve maximum lip contact with the other parties involved--

 

\--predictably, it goes more than a little sideways. Noses get far too in the way, and someone starts to giggle, which sets everyone else off. Sandy just about gets the corner of Patrick’s mouth, but Bobby’s mouth lands somewhere on her chin, and it’s clear the well-intentioned experiment hasn’t resulted in a perfect first try.

 

“Well--”

 

“--that was--”

 

“--we’ll work on it.”

 

\---

 

Eventually, they get up, Sandy retrieves her shoes, and they head back to the car, the chill starting to take on more of an edge, even with them all huddled together. And the leftover burgers are still warm, so they throw elegance to the ocean and chow down as they walk, all giggly, giddy with the joy of the way the day’s ended.

 

A lifeguard in very loud board-shorts who looks vaguely familiar to Sandy -  _ Lenny, or Lonnie, or something _ \- passes by them, catching the sunny glow coming off them.

 

“Yo, you guys look like you’re having one  _ off the chain  _ kinda evening. What’s in those burgers that’s got you so  _ hype _ ?”

 

Bobby’s mouth is too full to answer, so Sandy speaks for him.

 

“Come by the old pirate diner tomorrow,” she says, wiping a blob of sauce from her lip, “and you’ll know first hand.”

 

The lifeguard nods, flashing them the  _ hang loose _ hand sign as they walk away from each other, and soon enough our trio piles back into the car, last bites of leftovers disappearing as Sandy and Bobby buckle in in the back and Patrick kicks the engine to life.

 

He turns them around and they’re cruising, halfway home, when Sandy speaks up, head lifting from where it was lowered to look at her phone.

 

“You know, I still definitely don’t wanna go to England, but there  _ is _ somewhere I  _ do _ wanna take y’all.”

 

“Oh yeah?” Says Patrick, over his shoulder. Sandy grimaces and turns his head back to face the road.

 

“Yeah. What would you boys say to takin’ a trip outta state?”

 

“How far out of state?” Bobby asks. Sandy leans back in her seat, watching the sun start to set over the sea.

 

“I’m thinkin… maybe Texas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for sticking with me, and i'd love to know what you thought B) don't forget, next month's update will wrap up this fic, finally, FINALLY! i hope it'll be worth it.


	15. ACT 3 PART 5: messages from home / one or more do-overs.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> after almost two years of writing (can you BELIEVE that!?) we have finally come to the end. here it is. some of this was written in the manchester apollo arena, while waiting for a flight of the conchords concert to start. i hope it's a good wrap-up!

**Randall County Jr.: hey sis!!!!!!!!**  
**Randall County Jr.: can’t wait for u to get home. cant wait 2 meet ur BOYFRIENDS!!!!!**

 **Randall County Jr.: just as a warning mom is making this An Event** **  
** **Randall County Jr.: i’m talking good china. im talking good silverware. im talking grandma’s pecan pie recipe. it’s all happening in the kitchen today.**

 

**Calamity Sand-rane: she DOES realise it’s going to take us like TWO days to drive in, right?**

 

**Randall County Jr.: the party starts WITH or without you.**

 

\---

 

“...so you have to feed him two times a day, morning and evening. He’s got his own bed but he might try to sleep in _yours_ so if that happens just try not to roll over too much. And you have to _pet_ him every day, or he’ll think you don’t care about him--”

 

Though Gary doth protest, yowling and stretching and baring his claws, Bobby places him into Edward’s arms all the same. Gary, and then a selection of his favourite toys, and a handwritten petcare manual meticulously taken down in a specially-bought notebook.

 

“--and video call me _every_ night so I can check up on him, okay?” Bobby says, fondly stroking Gary’s head as he mentally ticks off his checklist, ready to tick it off on _paper_ when he gets a free hand.

 

“I absolutely will _not_ be doing that.” Edward replies, deadpan.

 

“Edward! You promised you’d look after him!”

 

“I promised I’d _feed_ him. The rest of this nonsense? He’ll just have to go without for the week.”

 

Bobby’s expression sours, but before he can try again with his attempt to convince Sandy to let him bring Gary along on their trip, she herself steps in, thanks Edward, grabs Bobby by the shoulders, and propels him stair-ward, out on his way to where Patrick’s waiting by the car.

 

To add to the ridiculous pile of things already in Edward's arms, Sandy adds a packet of aspirin. Edward raises an eyebrow.

 

"I'd be offended that you'd make assumptions, but quite honestly all I  _want_ to say is thank you." He adjusts the assortment of things in his arms - Gary mewls discontentedly. "Is good luck in order? I don't know how you think you can handle a cross-country drive with those two, on  _top_ of an extended family holiday with them."

 

Sandy rolls her eyes, fond. "Oh, you'll  _definitely_ need that aspirin more than I will. I reckon you'll be the one havin' the hard time-- it's gonna be real quiet 'round here for the next few days. You might get noisy-neighbour withdrawal symptoms."

 

Edward allows himself to laugh. "Yes, maybe. Well, if that's all, then  _thank you_ , Sandra. Enjoy your trip."

 

"Thank  _you_ , Edward!" And she turns on her heel - which Edward just now happens to notice.

 

"Sandra?" he says, prompting her to turn back around. With eyebrows raised and a  _hm?_ , he's got her attention again. "What on  _earth_ have you got on your  _feet_?"

 

Sandy looks down, a grin spreading across her face as though she'd just gotten a particularly good little surprise, seeing the little blue cornflowers picked out on purple leather atop her toes.

 

"Oh, these are my  _cowgirl_ boots. Can't be seen back at the ranch without 'em."

 

"But you  _can_ be seen around here in them? Good god, Sandra."

 

She only laughs again. "Maybe just for today. But who knows, since  _you_ like 'em so much, maybe I'll make them more of a permanent wardrobe feature." She reaches forward to give Gary's ears one more scratch, and then she's off down the stairs.

 

Bobby calls  _goodbye_ up to Edward as Sandy jumps in the car. He raises a hand in a short farewell wave and Edward finds himself waving back, despite the way he’s carefully schooled his expression into a scowl.

 

(He doesn’t mean the grim expression, of course. On the inside, he’s beaming with pride, more glad than he’d _ever_ say out loud to see his three young friends finally get their act together. He’d _like_ to believe he played some part in helping it all happen - _credit where credit’s due,_ he thinks. He’s had to put up with an awful lot of lovelorn tears from Bobby, after all.)

 

“See you next week!” Sandy calls from below. Edward nods and watches as they pull out of the parking lot, watching and watching right until he can’t see them anymore before he backs into his apartment to let his new feline roommate down.

 

If he’s honest, he’s glad to finally have some _intelligent_ company.

 

\---

 

Within the pink-painted walls and four doors of Patrick’s hot rod, one Bobby Porter tricks off the latest thing from his agenda, a flick in a box next to the neatly written ‘ _drop Gary off with Edward’_ bullet point. With a shake of the notebook, its cover flips back to the front and he stuffs it back into the over-stuffed backpack he’s got stuffed between his knees.

 

There’s still a lot more on the list before they even get to ‘ _arrive in Houston’_ , after which the real meat of the checklist begins.

 

“Y’all packed your sunscreen, right?” Sandy says, leaning forward, her elbows against the back of Bobby’s seat. He’s only in a t-shirt, and she can see the start of sunburn on the back of his neck. “‘Cause as sunny it is in your little beach town, around this time back home you’d be fit to barbecue - _without_ the grill.”

 

Patrick hums. “I love barbecue.”

 

Sandy snorts, rolling her eyes. Bobby unzips his backpack, getting this feeling he’s probably going to be zipping and unzipping a _lot_ on this particular road trip. He rummages around for a while, and then produces a kid’s bottle of sunblock with a little group of cartoon sea creatures on it. Sandy raises an eyebrow at the packaging - a sea sponge is just a _little_ unusual for an anthropomorphic mascot, isn’t it? - but she smears the SPF onto her friend’s exposed skin without commenting.

 

“Are you excited to be going home?” Bobby asks, shivering as the sunscreen is applied, relaxing as Sandy rubs it in with her fingertips.

 

Sandy hums thoughtfully. “You know what, Bobby? I think I am. I’m glad to be goin’ home to Texas, but maybe just a little sad to be leavin’ home too.”

 

“Here?” Patrick pipes up.

 

Sandy wipes the last of the sunscreen off of her hand and onto her knee, before she leans over and pats Pat’s shoulder.

 

“Yup. I think maybe I realised that this is my home too. It’s where you two are, after all. My team.” She grins, catching Patrick's eye in the rear-view mirror. “Wouldn't be here without ya.”

 

Patrick snorts. “Cheesy.”

 

Bobby turns, grabs her hand, earnest. “No, _wonderful_.”

 

“Why not _both_ ?” Patrick says. “Cheesy _and_ wonderful.”

 

“Cheesy _is_ wonderful.” Sandy corrects, squeezing Patrick’s shoulder with the hand Bobby’s not clutching. “You guys just bring it out of me.”

 

\---

 

Towards the east of town, renovations begin on the ageing pirate-themed diner long known as _Ye Olde Krusty Krab_ . The daughter of this restaurateur has _long_ longed to give the whole place an update, and today, at seventeen, she becomes something of an entrepreneur herself. She’s already haggled the new windows down about a hundred dollars off the salesperson’s quote, and that’s on _top_ of getting her father to use one less sugar in his morning coffee.

 

She’s having a harder time getting him to budge on the name.

 

“...it’s just it’s an _institution_ , Pearly, and well renowned in town! If we changed it, there’d be an uproar! The people need some comfort in these uncertain times!”

 

“But _crusty_ ? Really? That doesn’t say comfort to me, Dad, that says, like, _mouldy_.”

 

Krabbe coughs and splutters, utterly affronted. He’s just beginning to formulate a response when one Patrick Starr’s pepto-pink car rolls up next to him, and three young employees of varying levels of officialness hop out.

 

Patrick offers a lazy salute. Sandy waves, and Bobby hurries to hug Pearl in greeting.

 

“Hey, Bobby,” says Pearl, as she pulls back, keeping her hands firmly on his shoulders. “Daddy and I are trying to figure a new name for this place.”

 

Bobby touches a thoughtful finger to his chin. “Does it _need_ a new name?”

 

Pearl rolls her eyes. “Don’t be like that. I need you on my side!”

 

“Hey, hey, I’m not here to pick sides.”

 

“Don’t forget who got you your new _nametag_ , Porter.”

 

Bobby lifts his hands in surrender, laughing brightly. “Okay, okay! Hm. Well what about… the _Khaotic Krab_?”

 

Patrick hums. “How about…” he spreads his hands. “The _King Krab_.”

 

“Or the _Kool Krab_ ,” Sandy offers, point-aim-and-shooting a pair of finger guns over Patrick’s shoulders.

 

“The _Kowboy Krab_?” Bobby suggests, looking to Sandy with eyebrows waggling. She snorts, and shoves playfully at his face.

 

“The… _Kurly Krab_ ,” Patrick says, swiping a hand through Bobby’s hair.

 

“The _Kreepy Krab_!” Bobby wiggles his fingers, and Pearl groans, dragging her hands down her face.

 

“Never mind! Never mind, you guys are so super weird. I guess the old name has to stay.”

 

“I think that’s a good thing,” says Patrick. “This place an institution around these parts.”

 

“That’s what _I_ said,” says Krabbe, piping up and clapping Patrick heartily on the back. “Glad one of you youngin’s around here’s still got some sense. Besides!” He directs the attention of the group to the construction work happening across the road - where what seems to be a small sushi place is going up in what used to be an auto-garage. “I don’t think we need to go changing our name just because a little friendly competition’s starting to go up.”

 

A thin, shaky man with hair combed right back and pulled into one tight, oil-black ponytail steps out of a car, followed by a bespectacled woman in a lilac skirt-suit and beehive hairdo. They eye Krabbe and his crew through narrowed eyes, but Eugene simply waves jovially at them, prompting a cringing sort of a response from their new neighbours.

 

“Look at ‘em,” says Krabbe, through his over-friendly grin. “Couple of big city suit-wearers. Reckon they’ll be out of business by the end of the summer. Come on inside, you kids. Let’s say goodbye to the _Olde_ Krusty Krab, so that we might make way for the _new_.”

 

Inside, Pearl talks them through basic renovations, and includes the long, meticulously thought-out list of suggestions that Edward had passed onto her the day before. Krabbe stands back and watches her act all _manager_ with a gleam of pride in his eye, and when they’re through, he claps his hands together and turns to Bobby.

 

“Well, what say ye, lad? Want to fire up this old grill one last time before we throw her out to make way for Pearly’s new model?”

 

Bobby mimes taking his hat off his head and holding it to his heart - _aye-aye, Captain_ \- and all packed into the kitchen, the whole crew set together to watch the creation of a _new_ special.

 

Years ago, when _Ye Olde Krusty Krab_ had first opened, and the ‘ _olde_ ’ in the name had been purely ironic, one Eugene Krabbe had come to create something he’d called _The Krabby Patty_ , a seafood patty unlike any that American coastline towns had tried before. It had become a staple in town by the time Eugene was forty-five, and in ten years the recipe for the standard _Krabby Patty_ has remained unchanged. _Cod and prawns, combined with crabmeat. A sesame bun, lettuce, tomato, and Captain Krabbe’s famous organic relish_.

 

Today, Eugene Krabbe steps aside and lets Bobby Porter add an ingredient.

 

It’s still only 11AM, so Bobby fries an egg.

 

\---

 

“Alright, you lubbers, that’s enough of yer sitting around here in the way of the contractors. Get going on your trip and leave us Krabbes to our renovations.”

 

Krabbe stands up from their pushed-together brunch table, his grizzled hands already reaching for everybody’s plates. Bobby wipes his mouth on a paper napkin, already fumbling for his wallet.

 

“How much do we owe you, boss?”

 

Krabbe shrugs.

 

“Consider it a family dinner, sponge-boy. On the house--” expressions all around turn shocked, close-to-fainting, utterly gobsmacked “--now _get going_ before I change my mind.”

 

\---

 

Pearl and Krabbe wave them away, and pulling away in the not-Cadillac with bellies full of brunch, all three of our heroes notice the sushi proprietors from across the street, standing stock-still in front of their half-built restaurant, following them with all three eyes.

 

“Is it just me,” says Sandy, as she finally tears her eyes away from them, “but do those two look _straight_ out of a nineteen-sixties spy flick?”

 

“Oh, _yeah_ ,” says Patrick. “They’re definitely supervillains. Did you see the guy’s _eyepatch_?”

 

“Aw, come on. I’m sure they’re not,” says Bobby. “Besides, maybe he’s a pirate. He could be Mr Krabbe’s new best friend, and they just don’t know it yet.”

 

Patrick snorts. “I’ll believe it when I see it. C’mon, buddy. What’s next on your list?”

 

\---

 

One hour’s drive later, they get to tick off something Bobby considers _very_ important.

 

\---

 

“Hi Mom! Hi Dad!”

 

The front door to Tom and Jillian Porter’s house swings open, and though they knew in advance that this visit was happening, they nonetheless greet Bobby with the same sort of excitement they would if he’d made a sudden surprise return after about a decade away. They cheer and throw their arms around him, laughing and hugging for a full minute or two before they finally let him go enough to breathe.

 

“Guys, I have some _really_ important people to introduce to you today.” He beams, his hands on either parent’s shoulders. “And I want you to know that you’re still the two most important people to me in the world, but now i have two _more_ most important people to add to that.”

 

Mr Porter nods seriously, though his moustache twitches, betraying his cool. “And just who _are_ these two very important people, son?”

 

Bobby grins, and then calls over his shoulder to where Patrick and Sandy sit waiting in the car. “Guys, come over here, please?”

 

They do so, striding up with purpose and coming to a stop either side of Bobby on the porch stoop. Each of them takes one of Bobby’s hands in theirs, and Bobby beams at each of them in turn, lifting their joined hands and wiggling them around a little to show off to his parents.

 

“This is Patrick, who you know, and Sandy, who you...kind of know?”

 

Sandy shrugs, her eyes crinkling as she smiles. “Howdy, Mister and Missus P.”

 

“Howdy yourself, sweetheart!” Mrs Porter says.

 

“Yeah,” says Bobby. “Well, I-- _we_ \-- have something we wanna tell you guys.” He sucks in a breath, tilts his head to the right. “Mom and Dad, may I officially introduce you to my _boyfriend_ , Patrick,” then he tilts his head to his left, “and also my _girlfriend_ , Sandy.”

 

Mr and Mrs Porter exchange serious looks, and Bobby, Patrick and Sandy all hold their breath. Bobby’s parents have an animated sort of a conversation with their eyebrows, until finally they turn back to the young men and woman at their doorstep.

 

“Well, we can’t deny it’s unusual--” begins Mr Porter.

 

“--but we trust our Bobby’s heart more than anything. And if he loves the both of you, then all we can give you is our blessing.” finishes Mrs Porter. Then she laughs and throws her arms wide. “Oh, get in here, the three of you!”

 

\---

 

Sandy’s seen the Porter parents’ house before, but today she gets the _tour_ . And though it’s not the house that her boys grew up in, the myriad of photographs framed on every surface all require an explanation and then careful study. There’s a quiz at the end, according to Patrick, and he’s grading harsh -- _if you want to become a Porter, you've gotta be up to date on the Porter family_. Bobby assures Sandy that he'll slip her the answers under the table.

 

Luckily, she passes with flying colours.

 

\---

 

Though it’s not their intention to stay very long, our heroes end up taking a light late lunch with Mr and Mrs Porter, if only because they're not sure they’ll be _allowed_ to leave without getting a meal. Mrs Porter is very insistent.

 

In the interest of avoiding there being _too many cooks_ , Mrs Porter recruits only Patrick and Sandy to help her in the kitchen. Bobby and his father take the couch in the living room.

 

“So. A boyfriend _and_ a girlfriend, eh son?”

 

Bobby winces, halfway to covering his face with his hands. “You think it's weird.”

 

“No, no!” Mr Porter says. “Well, yeah. But it’s not a bad weird. After all, your mother and I love Patrick. We’ve always known you two would be together no matter what, though we couldn't predict just how you kids would want to define yourselves. As for Sandy?”

 

He leans past Bobby, raising his eyebrows at the kitchen. From the doorway pours out the sizzling of the frying pan and a harmonising trio of laughter. “Well, I think she fits in round here just fine.”

 

Bobby breathes out a sigh of relief. “She kinda does, doesn’t she? I just hope me and Pat do okay with _her_ family out in Texas.”

 

“I think Patrick will be fine,” says Mr Porter. “But _you_ have to play it cool, son. And try and keep the _cowboy-speak_ to a minimum while you’re there.”

 

Bobby cringes. “Aw, pops. I wasn’t-- gonna… do that.”

 

“Son, I _know_ you!”

 

Bobby’s cringe morphs into a giggle, and he waves his father off, exasperated. “I know, I know. Okay, I promise I won’t _cowboy-speak_ at the people in Texas. Unless they _cowboy-speak_ at me first.”

 

\---

 

Late light lunch finished with, Mrs Porter crams leftovers into take-out tupperwares and the spare picnic cooler she and her husband always forget about, and then helps Patrick to cram that cooler into the trunk of his car, after employing the skill with packing-tetris that all moms are bestowed upon attaining mom-hood.

 

One last tupperware goes into Bobby’s hands - for the road. On the top is a little pink post-it note upon which is scribbled; ‘ _For the road._ _Happy trails, you lovebirds! Love, Mom and Dad_.’

 

Bobby’s heart aches with affection as he gives his parents one last hug before they go, and he slips the note under the sun-shade as he gets himself into the car. Pat and Sandy are still saying their goodbyes. And as he turns to look over his shoulder, his fingers slipping from the sun-shade, he gets just a little misty-eyed to see everything he ever wanted happening right before his eyes.

 

“So long, Mister and Missus Porter. It was real great gettin’ to meet you guys properly. I hope we can do it again?” Sandy says, as they release her from a hug, the bone-crushing levels of which could rival her _own_ parents, and they’re both about twice the size of the Porters.

 

“Oh, _absolutely_ sweetheart!” Says Mrs Porter, squeezing Sandy’s hands, her smile so earnest, a perfect gap-toothed match for her son’s. “We’ll have to get some more photo albums down from the attic next time you visit. There’s still a lot of the boys in fifth grade you’ve not seen!”

 

“See you soon, kiddo,” says Mr Porter, after he and his wife give Patrick his hug goodbye. “We’ve still got a whole _deck_ to build when you get back.” His bespectacled gaze slides to Sandy. “Although maybe it’s _you_ I should be asking for D.I.Y help?”

 

“You can count on _all_ of us, Mister P,” says Patrick. “See you soon.”

 

WIth one last round of _goodbyes_ and _have a safe trips_ and _thank you for lunches_ , Patrick and Sandy turn back to the car. Pat’s just pulled the door on the driver’s side open, keys spinning on his index finger when Sandy says _wait up a second, Patrick_.

 

She digs deep into the pockets of her shorts and produces a key. A key to her apartment.

 

“It’s for emergencies,” she says. “Or if you just wanna come by and say hello. You know, if you’re bored, or you miss the sound of all my inventions or somethin’.”

 

She tosses it to him, and Patrick catches it, the silver metal clinking against the rest of the keys on his ring. He slides it on and lets them jingle.

 

“Thanks,” he says. Bobby raises his eyebrows as they both buckle in, and Sandy notices.

 

“Oh, you’ll get _your_ key to my place just as soon as you stop cringing everytime you see the mess. If you can survive _one_ whole night at my apartment sometime, you’ll get your pass.”

 

Bobby sticks out his tongue, and Patrick laughs, starting the ignition.

 

“Come on,” he says, as they pull out of the driveway. The sun shines down. Everything feels as it should. “Let’s go. Next stop, _Texas_.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _In another life_ , Patrick thinks _, I have my own place, and it’s terrible_. It’s some other existence where he’s truly too dumb for love, and he knows that what he has here is as close to perfect as it gets.

 

_What’s better than here and now, with these people, heading somewhere new, together?_

 

\--

 

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaand that's it! it's over! i know this chapter's a little short, but it really is just a tie-off to all the events that have happened. there's a little bit of referencing the source, a little bit of referencing stuff from previous chapters, and just a bit of bookending to finish it of. yep! it's finished! boy, i have to say, i am glad it's done!!! no more trying to frantically reach my personal 'chapter a month' thing - i know they've been irregular updates at times, but to everyone who's stuck with me -- thank you SO so so so SO very much. i cannot begin to explain how much it's meant to me. and sometimes i've thought -- boy, i'm putting a lot of effort into what's very technically spongebob squarepants fanfiction, but in the end it's felt, for me, more like a love story i am telling, and i'm using certain existing characters to tell it. maybe i just fell too hard in love with the stage actors (no denying, i think they're utterly wonderful). though the writing of the fic is now over, i'm thinking about going back into it, adding some more chapter illustrations, probably actually going through and checking my spelling and grammar :')))))
> 
> so all there really is to say again is thank you so much for reading. and whether you've just read this story for the first time or if you've come back often, if it's meant anything to you at all, now that it's finished, i'd love it if you'd let me know what you thought or felt about it.


End file.
